A cloud o’ smoke with us on top
A million fathoms lept—
Yet in that muss not one of us
Wuz scratched or hurt, except—
Our gallant Capting lost his head.
Our Mate his limbs and breath,
The soup wuz spilled, our crew wuz killed,
Our cook wuz scared to death.
So often in the stilly night
I long with fond regret
To sail again the Gentle Jane
Upon the sea, and yet—
The Heritage of Maxwell Fair
BY VINCENT HARPER
CHAPTER I
WITH the smoking pistol still in his hand he stepped over the prostrate man and, grasping Mrs. Fair’s bare shoulder, shook her until she looked up.
“Quick! For God’s sake, Janet, get to your room!” he said, trying to make her comprehend what he meant, but she only stared at him vacantly, her white face filled with terror and her eyes fixed on the form on the floor—that of a man in evening dress, across whose wide shirt front a streak of blood was widening.