The Cruise of the Pelican

By H. BEDFORD-JONES

Author of
"The Kasbah Gate," "Splendour of the Gods," etc.

London: HURST & BLACKETT, LTD.,
PATERNOSTER HOUSE, E.C.

1924

Contents

Chapter

I. [Boatswain Joe]
II. [News from Nowhere]
III. [Laying a Course]
IV. [The Square Suitcase]
V. [The "Pelican"]
VI. [Outward Bound]
VII. [Jerry Tells Something]
VIII. [Miles Hathaway Talks]
IX. [Unalaska Bay]
X. [The Wreck]
XI. [The Enemy Comes]
XII. [In the Depths]
XIII. [Pontifex Plans Revenge]
XIV. [They that Take the Sword—]

THE CONCLUSION [Outward Bound]

The Cruise of the "Pelican"

CHAPTER I
BOATSWAIN JOE

Tom Dennis sat on a printer's stool beside a very dirty window which dimly illumined his figure, and stared at the gloom surrounding him. His rawboned face was dejected; his angular body slumped despondently. In his hand was a little sheaf of papers.

It was five-thirty in the afternoon. Long since, the grist of evening papers had gone through the big press; the rollers had been washed and retired; the men had gone home. It was Saturday night, and the week's work was done. So was The Marshville Clarion, as Tom Dennis cheerlessly admitted to himself.

The high-school lad who assisted Dennis in gathering local items and filling the columns of The Clarion had not returned as usual from the Saturday baseball game to write up his notes from a fresh memory. Dennis had instructed him not to return until Monday—and not to return then unless sent for.

Silence and the darkness of departing day lay funereally upon the big back room. Presses and stones and type-racks filled the floor. Always dingy and dark, this room now seemed to feel the approach of dissolution. The smell of printing-ink hung upon the air like incense strewn by dead hands. The Clarion had issued its own obituary.

Tom Dennis suddenly moved. To the dim light of the unwashed window he held the papers in his hand. They were bills. Each of them was stamped "Paid". As he looked at them, Tom Dennis uttered a mirthless bitter laugh.

"Paid!" he said, his voice ringing hollowly in the emptiness of the big back room. "Paid, by heavens—and not a cent to spare! And the bank holds a mortgage on this plant! I can sell the typewriters for fifty dollars; I'll have to do it to get out of town!"

The outer door, the door of the front office, banged, and there was a heavy tread that ceased abruptly. Tom Dennis paid no heed to it; he sensed that someone had entered, but it was of no concern to him what passed in the outer office.

"Done!" he said morosely. "I'm done! It's been the dickens of a pull, this year has—and now I'm done."

He was right: he was done, and he knew it.

Every newspaper man dreams of running, some day, a paper all his own, dreams of taking over some "small-town" paper, dreams of running it his own way and indulging his own ideas of how a paper should be run, dreams of wealth and fame in consequence. Once in a thousand cases, perhaps, the dream comes true.

Tom Dennis was at the end of his own particular dream. A college man, a star reporter on a Chicago daily, he had saved his money, and, at twenty-three, had become the owner of The Clarion in the sleepy little town of Marshville.

A meteoric year had ensued. Tom Dennis had gone to work to wake up Marshville—and he had succeeded. He had wakened Marshville to a lively animosity, a deadly resentment that a stranger should come in here and give advice. Marshville knew that it was a sleepy, dying, vicious, ingrowing little town—and Marshville wanted to be just that kind of town! So, when Tom Dennis tried to root out the viciousness and decay, Marshville was angered.

Six months passed, and the last of Tom Dennis' money was gone. He mortgaged the whole property, lock, stock, and barrel, and went on fighting. He had gleams of success, and the letters of Florence Hathaway had inspired him to renewed efforts, but now the end had come. He must either borrow on his personal credit, which was not extensive enough to carry him very long, or else go under.

"A smart Yankee packet lay out in the bay,
To me way hay, o-hi-o!
A-waiting for a fair wind to get under way,
A long time ago!"

The voice—a musing rumbling voice—came from the outer office, and it was a voice strange to Tom Dennis. But he scarce heard the words, or the swinging air. His hand had clenched upon the sheaf of papers, and his head had lowered. Chin to breast, he was in the agony of defeat; despite himself, despite his rugged features, slow tears were groping on his cheeks.

Those tears were not for himself, not for the fact of his failure here. A year ago Tom Dennis would have taken his defeat with a laugh and a joke, and he had not changed. It was not self-misery which drew those man's tears to his cheeks.

He was thinking of Florence Hathaway. He had found her here in the Clarion office a year ago, a society reporter; she was then supporting her slowly-dying mother. Two years previously her father, Captain Miles Hathaway, had been lost at sea somewhere in the Pacific; the girl had brought her mother back to Marshville, the mother's old home town, and there the mother had died. This had been three months after the coming of Tom Dennis.

For another three months, Florence Hathaway had stayed on with the Clarion—largely for love of Tom Dennis. Then had come the offer of a teacher's position in a private school in Chicago, and she had accepted the offer.

Not that Dennis wanted her to accept—far from it! They had argued it all out that night, under the willow trees by the river. Her hand in his, the girl had made Tom Dennis face a few hard facts. She was the rare kind who can make a man realize things.

"Tom, dear," she had said gently, "another year will see you firmly established here in Marshville. Until then we can't dare marry; it isn't fair to you! Get clear of financial worries first. Not that I care about the money, Tom, but I do care so much about you; and now you're talking about mortgaging the paper, and it's bearing you down."

"And if I fail?"

"Then come to me in Chicago, and we'll start fresh—together."

"But why go there? Stay here where you can help me most! It's your society stuff that does most good——"

"No, dear, Marshville hates you; you must conquer or be conquered, and you don't know how terribly bitter Marshville can be. It's like any small town, Tom. They're all against you now, and if I stay on the paper, they'll be talking—about us. Besides, I don't like the place. I want to be in Chicago a little while, mistress of myself, enjoying a little bit of real life and real things. I'll come back to you here, or you'll come to me there, Tom, and——"

Now, as he sat in the dingy back room, Tom Dennis thought over these things, and his pride revolted within him. He could not go back to his old job, admitting that he had made a failure of his paper, admitting that he was good for nothing better than a reporter's job. He could not go to Florence Hathaway—a failure! He had tasted of freedom, and now it seemed to him that a reporter's was a dog's life. He would not go back to it. He would not ask her to face it all, even though she might be willing—

"We didn't get a drink for seventeen days,
To me way hay, o-hi-o!
And nobody cared if she hung in stays,
A long time ago!"

Dimly the words penetrated the consciousness of Tom Dennis, roused him slightly. Who was in the outer office? Well, no matter. The bank owned it now—tight-lipped old banker Dribble up the street, who owned everything.

"It wasn't a fair fight, maybe," muttered Tom Dennis, sudden storm in his eyes. "They lied to me right and left. The advertising contracts were faked on me. They tried to stab me in the back whenever they had a chance—and they did it, too! But there's no use sobbing over all that."

He would have to leave town, of course—the sooner the better. He might as well take the evening train to Chicago and make his plans to start afresh. There was nothing to hold him here; everything was paid, even to the interest on the mortgage. The mortgage still had six months to run.

"Why not?" Dennis suddenly came to his feet. "I can shut up this coop, and they can't touch it for six months! The property may deteriorate, of course; mice will eat the rollers, and the ink will dry up, and the presses won't be oiled—but that's old Dribble's lookout, not mine! I still have six months left! A stroke of luck——"

"Ahoy, matey!" billowed a voice. "Ahoy, Dennis! Where are you, skipper?"

A monstrous voice was that, a roaring thunderous voice that filled the dingy old back room with rolling waves of sound. Startled, Tom Dennis reached to the nearest electric bulb, switched it on, and directed the light toward the door of the outer office.

There, standing in the doorway, he saw a surprising figure. The stranger was two inches taller than Dennis, who himself stood six feet one. Not particularly well dressed was the intruder—rough blue serge, manifestly hand-me-downs, and a white soft shirt with loosely-knotted cravat. But the face—the face was the thing!

A peculiar face it was, for in it was emphasized the trait common to most men. Its left side was regular enough. The right brow, however, was uptwisted satanically; the right side of the mouth was down-twisted in a leer. Seldom had Tom Dennis seen this dissimilarity between the two sides of a man's face so pronounced. Aside from this, it was a massive strong face, lighted by two very direct, piercing, predatory eyes of light-blue, and crowned by flaming red hair.

"Ha!" said the stranger, coming forward. "You're Dennis?"

"You're right." And a sour smile twisted the lips of the newspaper man. "My name is Dennis, right enough. You've got another bill to present?"

The other halted, and stared at him.

"Bill?" he repeated. "Bill? Paying your bills, are you?"

Dennis laughed shortly. "You bet. I'm clearing out of here to-night. Well, how much is it? Guess I can scrape up enough to pay it; if not, there's a typewriter out in front you can take along. Thought I'd cleared 'em all off, though——"

The stranger threw back his head and laughed. That laugh was a roaring billow of sound, as though the red-head were accustomed to fling his laughter into the teeth of a singing gale.

"Ho-ho!" he cried boisterously. "Slipping your cable, hey? Gone under, hey? Another poor swab who can't beat the shyster law-clerks and has gone under! Well, do what I did, matey. I was in the same boat myself, oncet—and I run off to sea! Strike me blind if it wasn't the makin' of me! Now, if you'll take my advice and do the same thing——"

"What do you want?" snapped Dennis suddenly. "I'm not asking for your advice, my friend. Have you business with me?"

"Aye." The other came forward, hand extended. His voice was conciliating. "Come, no harm done by a bit o' fun, matey! None intended, none took. My name's Ericksen; they calls me Boatswain Joe, mostly, though I've got a quartermaster's ticket in me oilskin. I want a bit o' talk, if you have the time."

"I'm rich in time," responded Dennis. "Take a seat."

As they shook hands, Dennis felt the palm of Ericksen to be horny, rough with great calluses; but the thumb lay over the back of his own fingers with smooth pressure. A sailor, then, and one used to handling lines! That explained the odd snatches of lingo. But what was a sailor doing here, in the middle of the United States?

Ericksen eased himself up on a high stool, stuffed loose tobacco from his pocket into a pipe-bowl and struck a match. His piercing, arrogant, light-blue eyes surveyed Tom Dennis with a comprehensive scrutiny.

"I hear," he said abruptly, a cloud of smoke issuing from his lips, "I hear you and Miss Hathaway are engaged to be married."

His voice was still conciliatory, rather bearing an air of a forced whine, and it was entirely belied by those fierce predatory eyes. Tom Dennis flushed angrily.

"What are you driving at?" he demanded. "What have my private affairs to do with you?"

"Don't flare up, matey," responded the other. "I'm comin' to the p'int, steerin' a safe course meantime. 'Keep an eye on your charts, boatswain,' says the skipper, 'and look out for shoals among them land-sharks.' So I'm doin' it. Of course, knowing the inside of the country pretty well, comin' from Wisconsin way like I do, I'm able to navigate better'n the others would be; but just the same, I'm mindin' my wheel mighty close. 'No steerin' by the wind this cruise,' says the skipper, and right he was."

This was all Greek to Tom Dennis.

"Well, what do you want with me?" he reiterated.

"You answer my question, matey," returned the other calmly.

"None of your business, then," snapped Dennis.

To his surprise, Ericksen only chuckled good-humouredly, and slapped his knee as though at a good joke.

"I knowed it! You are, right enough. Goin' to Chicago to get spliced, maybe?"

The hand of Dennis closed on a printer's key, but Ericksen interposed.

"Here, don't start no rumpus, matey! You see, I got to know the chart before I can lay my course. Ain't that reasonable? I got to this here town this afternoon, lookin' for Miss Hathaway, and first one, then another, tells me she's gone to Chicago, but they don't know exactly where. They said to come here an' find you, you bein' supposed to know for private reasons. Ain't that statin' it plain and unoffensive? That's me every time. 'Mind your jaw-tackle, boatswain,' says the skipper. 'Be mild an' gentle.' And I am."

The sailor grinned. So cheerful and white-toothed was that grin, that Tom Dennis felt impelled to laugh, but the arrogant, light-blue eyes steadied him.

"You want Miss Hathaway's address—is that it?"

"Part of it, matey," responded Ericksen. "Only part of it!"

CHAPTER II
NEWS FROM NOWHERE

Florence Hathaway was extremely astonished when, upon Sunday morning, she heard the voice of Tom Dennis on the telephone, and received a request to join him down-town for noon dinner.

"Come up to the school, Tom!" she returned. "You can dine in hall as my guest. And what brought you to town?"

"Can't talk now, Florence. And I'll have to refuse your invitation—because we'll all three have to dine down-town. Better make it the 'Royton'; then we can have comparative privacy."

"All three?" she echoed. "Who's with you?"

"A man who has news of your father, dear. He's to join us at the 'Royton' at one sharp, but I want to see you for a few moments first. Why not meet me at the Art Institute about twelve-thirty? I'll be in the Japanese Room. Believe me, it's important!"

"News of—father? Why, yes! I'll be there on time, Tom. Japanese Room!"

So, at the hour when the galleries were totally deserted, Tom Dennis was striding up and down in the Japanese Room, past the cases filled with lacquer ware. In his present mood of frowning meditation, his features looked almost forbidding; they were strong features, rugged with an uncompromising virility. Looking at them, one could understand how this man, unaided, had first worked his way through college and had later gone to the top of an overcrowded profession.

On time almost to the minute, Florence Hathaway appeared. Dennis met her at the door, his hand to hers; a swift glance around, and he bent his lips to hers.

"This way, dear!" he said, turning. "There'll be no interruptions then."

Together they made their way outside to one of the little balconies overlooking the smoky park and lake front. Brushing off two of the chairs, Tom Dennis set them by the stone rail.

"What on earth is it all about, Tom?" asked the girl wonderingly.

"Me, first—then you," smiling he filled his pipe and lighted it. Then he set about his tale, beginning with his own situation of the previous afternoon, and passing on to the coming of Boatswain Joe. He described his own hopeless case very bluntly and frankly.

Florence Hathaway did not interrupt him, but sat in silence, her eyes fastened upon his rugged face, reading there the signs of his past worries and failure. They were fine eyes, those that dwelt upon him with love and tenderness. An artist might have said that they were too large for her face, that their glowing brown depths held too passionate a fervor, too calmly poised a radiance, to match her almost colourless cheeks. By no rule could Florence Hathaway be adjudged beautiful; and yet Marshville had missed her more than all its other absent daughters put together.

In her eyes, indeed, lay the brave and tender soul of Florence Hathaway. Frail seemed her slender, almost girlish body; yet one who gazed into her level eyes knew that hers was an indomitable spirit—a heritage perhaps, from that lost father whose iron soul had battled the men and winds and seas of half the world.

"Then you've left Marshville for good?" she asked quietly when Dennis paused.

"Yes." He nodded curtly. "The place will be shut for six months. If I've not returned by that time, if I've not struck some lucky vein, old Dribble can foreclose his mortgage and be blessed! Of course, I'm not gambling on striking it rich in a hurry; it's just a long chance that still remains. Well, now that's settled, let's get on about your friend Ericksen. You never heard of anyone by that name?"

"No. He may have known my father——"

"I'm coming to that. Ericksen had come from the Pacific Coast to find you—in person; mark that down as Point One, upper case! Why in person, when a letter or telegram would have fetched you? Point One—Query! I don't like that fellow's looks.

"Point Two: he tells a very fishy sort of tale—namely, that your father was not lost at sea at all, but was rescued——"

"What?" broke in the girl, leaning forward. Again Dennis nodded, imperturbable.

"Yes, if you care to believe it. I don't! He says that your father was taken into Unalaska by some natives who had found him on one of the Aleut islands—he was then down with something like what used to be called 'brain fever'. It left him quite paralysed. He was taken to Vancouver and is now in a sailors' home there. Being paralysed, barely able to keep alive, he has been unable to tell his name—mind you, this is all Boatswain Joe's narrative.

"Ericksen, or some of his friends, saw your father there and recognized him, and promptly took him in charge. Do you get that, Florence? They have him in a house in Vancouver now, taking care of him. Point Two! They are not philanthropists; why did they do this? Why did they not communicate with the authorities? Why do they send Boatswain Joe to get you?"

"To get—me?" The girl's brown eyes shone eagerly.

"Yes. Ericksen wants you to go and see your father, wants you to try to communicate with him. Why? I don't know. Probably your father knows something that Ericksen or his friends want to know. Well, I suppose you'd go quick enough, if you believed the story?"

"Go?" she flashed. "Of course! To-day—now!"

"Ericksen seemed to think you might not," said Dennis dryly. "He offered me a thousand dollars to persuade you to go. I refused to give him your address; we came to Chicago together last night, and I told him you'd meet us for dinner. That's all. Point Three, why did he offer me that money?"

He was silent for a minute, then knocked out his pipe and swung around to face her.

"Look squarely at it, Florence: there's something mighty queer in the wind! Point one: why did Boatswain Joe come in person to get you? Point two: why are his friends taking care of your father? Point three: why do they try to bribe me to persuade you to go? I don't like it."

She gazed at him silently, frowningly.

"I can't answer any of those questions," she said at last, slowly. "But if my father is alive, and in that condition—my place is with him! Let's leave it until we see this man. He will perhaps have some proofs to offer me. He would have no incentive to tell such a story if it were not true.... About yourself, Tom: what do you intend to do now?"

He laughed shortly. "I've scarcely thought about it, Florence; this other thing has been on my mind all night. But I know this: I'll not let you go West in company with that sailor! That's dead sure. If his story is really true, then I'm going along, somehow!"

He glanced at his watch, and rose. "Time! Say nothing definite to Ericksen. Listen to him and form your own conclusions. Make an appointment with him for to-morrow to give him your answer; better make it for the 'Royton' again. Make him agree to pay our expenses West."

"You know I'll not take his money, Tom—on such an errand."

"I will, though." And Dennis laughed. "I'm down to thirty-four dollars! Besides, I want to see just how readily he'll agree to shell out real money. There's something queer about that crowd's being willing to pay so high to get you to Vancouver!"

"All sailors are generous," said the girl softly. "Perhaps some friends of father's are behind it."

"They didn't telegraph you, did they? Well, we shall see. Anyway—draw him out!"

In silence they regained the corridors, descended the wide staircase, and sought the street. Presently they entered a deserted lobby and gained the elevator running to the restaurant above.

When they stepped out of the car, they found Boatswain Joe awaiting them, manifestly ill at ease, and obviously an object of some suspicion on the part of the restaurant people. Dennis, knowing the head waiter of old, gained a quiet table in a corner and ordered dinner.

He was covertly watching Florence, to see how she took to the seaman; but she was plainly doing her best to put Ericksen at his ease. Amid these surroundings, he was anything but comfortable. The linen and silver, the table appointments, the orchestra, the general surroundings—all abashed and discomfited him. Tom Dennis grinned to himself, for this was precisely what he had aimed at.

But Boatswain Joe was there for a purpose and lost no time getting about it. Florence Hathaway, too, was wildly eager to authenticate the news of her father, and urged him to tell his story at once. So Ericksen, by the time the soup arrived, was into it full swing and was forgetting his own awkwardness and the girl's presence; bashfulness left him, and he told the story more in detail than he had to Dennis—perhaps under the spell of those glowing brown eyes.

And Dennis, studying the man, realized that Ericksen was no fool. He had guessed as much from the twisted lines of the face. Now, the more he listened, the more Dennis felt that Boatswain Joe had been well chosen for his present errand. The man presented the story of Captain Hathaway with a simplicity which carried conviction.

"So, ma'am, the skipper and the missus are takin' care of him," he concluded. "The skipper says to me: 'If the lady wants proof, boatswain, you give it to her!' So, ma'am, I got some pictures took showin' all of us."

Ericksen took an envelope from his pocket and passed it to the girl. She drew forth some photographs—and her face went white.

"Look here, Ericksen!" Dennis leaned forward, his eyes gripping the gaze of the sailor. "There are some things we don't understand. Why did you come in person to find Miss Hathaway? Who's your skipper, and why is he taking care of Captain Hathaway? Why are you spending so much money on the project?"

The arrogant, light-blue eyes flashed suddenly—a flash of suspicion, of anger.

"Sailormen don't count pennies," said the man curtly. "Besides, the skipper—Cap'n Pontifex—he used to know Cap'n Hathaway. Friends, they were."

"And he expects to get some information through Miss Hathaway?"

Ericksen's freckled features reddened. His one satanic eyebrow twitched upward.

"Aye, that's true enough; but what it is, ain't for me to say. 'You mind your jaw-tackle, boatswain,' says the skipper. That's all."

"Mr. Dennis will go West with us," said Florence Hathaway softly, extending the pictures to Dennis. "You will furnish expenses, Mr. Ericksen?"

"Aye, miss." In the light-blue eyes Dennis read a sudden avid gleam. They were very dangerous, those eyes, very predatory and unscrupulous. "Aye, miss—here an' now."

The seaman drew from his pocket a small roll of bills and counted off three fifties which he extended to Dennis. The latter took them. The eyes of the two men met and held; and again Dennis felt that sense of enmity, of forced geniality, as though the man were concealing a deadly hostility beneath a show of eager conciliation. First Boatswain Joe had desired to propitiate him; now he desired to propitiate Florence Hathaway.

Dennis shoved the money into his pocket, despite a glance of entreaty from the girl.

The photographs numbered four; in each was shown a figure in a wheel-chair—and the figure was that of Captain Hathaway. Dennis had seen other and older pictures of Florence Hathaway's father, and he recognized at once that massive countenance, that giant frame, those wide and unafraid eyes. He looked less at this figure, however, than at those others showing in the pictures.

One was Captain Pontifex—a man tall and thin, face cavernous and pallid, with deep-sunk eyes and a curled black moustache. Another was that of Mrs. Pontifex—"the Missus", as Boatswain Joe termed her; her face was indistinct, although her figure seemed very large. In two of the pictures Ericksen himself showed. The only other figure was that of a black man, quite indistinct, whom Ericksen described as the skipper's mate, Manuel Mendez, a "black Portuguese" from the Cape Verde Islands. Tom Dennis returned the envelope to Ericksen.

"I don't want your thousand dollars," he said quietly. "I've told Miss Hathaway all you said to me, and your offer of a bribe; it is not necessary."

Ericksen was quite unperturbed.

"Then, miss, I take it that you'll go?"

Florence smiled at him; and when she smiled, her frail features were suddenly lighted as by warm sunshine.

"Meet us here for luncheon to-morrow, Mr. Ericksen, and I'll give you my decision."

"Yes, ma'am—and if I may say so, there's a bit o' haste."

"Certainly. If we go, we'll be ready to catch the limited at eight to-morrow night."

"Couldn't ask no better, miss!" exclaimed the sailor. "Shipshape talk; that's what it is. 'If we go,' says you, 'we'll go on the jump'—just like that! Aye, all Bristol-fashion and trim! I'm proud to ha' met you, Miss Hathaway, and I hope you'll be able to get a few words out o' your poor father."

Ericksen checked himself abruptly, as though he had said too much. But he did not ask any questions concerning the money he had given Dennis; and this, to the mind of Dennis was an unnatural and puzzling fact, for Ericksen would hardly have handed over the money unless he were certain of Florence Hathaway's decision. The entire attitude of this seaman was puzzling in the extreme. His money carelessness might be explained by the fact that Captain Pontifex was backing him—but it looked queer.

Something of these thoughts was troubling Tom Dennis as he left the building with Florence Hathaway; they had parted with Ericksen in the restaurant lobby, seemingly to the entire satisfaction of the seaman. Dennis had already phoned for a taxicab, and as they went bowling up toward the North Shore, the girl noticed his silence.

"Well, Tom? A penny for your thoughts!"

"I was wondering what Ericksen's game can be—and who that Cap'n Pontifex is!"

"I never heard of him. Certainly father never mentioned him. Well, you're going to keep that money?"

"Yes. It's fair loot from the enemy."

"Enemy? But, Tom—surely you don't think Ericksen and his friends——"

"I'm convinced that there's something back of it all, Florence, something we don't know about! And that it's nothing very good."

The girl laughed. "Oh, Tom, you're delicious! Well, suit yourself; we'll go West to-morrow night—that is, I'm going. You can only go on one condition."

"Yes?" He looked at her, suspicious of the twinkle in her eyes. "What is it?"

"Tell you in a minute, dear. Now, it's true that you've failed in Marshville?"

"Absolutely and utterly."

"And you don't know what you're going to do?"

"No."

"It would be very foolish for us to marry, wouldn't it—especially with poor father to be taken care of? I have eight hundred dollars in the bank—a little surprise for you dear; but we shall probably have to stay West and get a fresh start. And, Tom, it'll take a long time before we get on our feet, won't it?"

He stared gloomily at the taxicab window, bitterly conscious that she spoke the truth.

"Of course," he assented. "I had no intention of coming to you, a failure, and holding you to your promise, Florence." His voice was harsh. "I doubt if I would have come, only that this other affair brought me. You're quite right. It would be criminal for us to marry, with only a few dollars in the world, and your helpless father——"

"Hush!" Her hand fluttered over his lips, and he promptly kissed it. "Don't say that it would be criminal, Tom; it would only be foolish."

"What's the condition?" he insisted.

"I'm coming to that. You admit, then, that in our present circumstances we should play the safe game, wait until we get established in the West, and until we get on our feet financially?"

"We ought to, of course," he nodded, storm in his eyes. "It would be folly to face poverty, to assume everything——"

"Isn't it very foolish to be in love at all, Tom, dear?"

"Not with you! That's something nobody could help."

"Then this is my condition; and if you refuse, you can't go West! To-morrow morning we shall be married. We shall deliberately be foolish—assume our burdens, have each other and make the best of things! Oh, don't stare at me. Don't you think my love and confidence and faith in you are supreme, dear? They are. We'll only win by daring—so we shall dare everything! And with each other, Tom—we shall win!"

CHAPTER III
LAYING A COURSE

When the dinner was over, Boatswain Joe was in no haste to leave the restaurant; but he returned to the table and ordered a drink, having seen Dennis and Florence Hathaway depart. As he had already paid for the meal, giving the waiter a handsome pourboire, no objection was made to his remaining as long as he wished. He stated that he expected a telephone-call.

Nearly an hour later, indeed, the waiter summoned him to the lobby. Ericksen took up the telephone-receiver and said: "Aye, matey!" Then he listened. Again he said: "Aye, matey!" and hung up the receiver.

He took the elevator to the street and briskly walked the two and a half blocks to a down-town hotel. It appeared that he was stopping here, for he went directly to the desk, demanded his key, then vanished in the elevator.

Fifteen minutes later a man inquired at the desk for Mr. Ericksen, and was shown to the room occupied by Boatswain Joe. This second man was as peculiar in appearance as the red-haired boatswain. He was rather small, very dapper in looks, and wore a tight little moustache on his upper lip. His movements were swift, agile, extremely alert. One would have said that he was a Frenchman, although upon entering Ericksen's room he spoke in good English.

"Ah, Boatswain! Well done, my friend; you described them excellently."

Ericksen regarded him with a twisted smile.

"Then you followed them?"

"Certainly. They went to a place on the North Side, a girls' school where she teaches; presently he came out and walked to a lodging-house on North Clark Street. I followed him inside and engaged a room adjoining his, which I shall occupy this afternoon. He is on the third étage—what you call—yes, flight! Upstairs."

"Good, Dumont." Ericksen ran his fingers through his tousled red hair. "We've made quick work of it, eh? Got here two days ago, and ready to slip our cable to-morrow night. 'Move sharp,,' says the Skipper; 'crack on all sail!' And we've done it. Hey? You've got your stuff all complete?"

Dumont lighted a cigarette and blew a thin cloud, nodding.

"All done. Everything is to be ready for me to-morrow morning. I shall inspect it; then it will be packed in a special suitcase, ready for the shipment."

"Good. We're leaving to-morrow night at eight bells or thereabouts. Get your ticket in the morning, and check the stuff on it. Sure it's what the Skipper ordered?"

Dumont inspected him with a sleepy cattish smile.

"Me, my friend, I make no mistakes. Ah, that skipper of ours! He is a marvel, a great man! It is not every man who can improve upon the so-wonderful Dumas! But this our skipper, he does so—pouf! Like that. To him—it is nothing at all."

"I dunno about that there Dumaw," returned Ericksen. "I used to know a guy o' that name, a nigger mate on the Columbia packet out o' Singapore——"

Dumont chuckled. "Worry not your so red head, my friend! Now, suppose you have the goodness to explain? Who is this man with the big body and the dangerous eyes?"

"Dangerous, rats!" Ericksen snorted. "On his uppers, he is. Ran foul o' law-sharks an' got laid on his beam-ends. He's suspicious; that's all. He and the lady are goin' to get spliced, see? Or they think they are. His name's Dennis. He means to go West with us."

The sleepy eyes of Dumont suddenly opened. They became very black and flashing. His white teeth showed beneath his tiny moustache in a smile.

"Oh, I see! It is in that direction the land lies! Well, let him come. Let our so-wonderful skipper take care of him!"

Ericksen shook his head. "Nope. Skipper says: 'Boatswain, don't you bring no barnacles along! Bring that young lady—and no barnacles.' Skipper knowed what he was about; strike me blind if he didn't! So Mr. Dennis he stays here."

Dumont regarded his companion with an admiring air.

"Ah, you have the head, my friend! You have not the looks, perhaps, but the head——"

"What's the matter with my looks, Frenchy?" demanded Ericksen suddenly, regarding the smaller man with steady eyes. "Come, now! Step aft an' speak it out, you! What's the matter with 'em?"

"Nothing in particular—merely the general aspect." And Dumont cocked his head on one side in pretended survey. Then he broke into laughter. "Drôle! You cannot afford to fight with me, eh? No. And you know better. Eh? I have always desired, my friend, to get my finger in that left eye of yours; it looks so devilish! I always wondered how the socket would look—if there were not a little devil sitting there, couchant!"

Ericksen changed countenance suddenly, and sat back in his seat. Behind those jesting words of Dumont's there lay a grotesque speculation—an earnestness, even! The dapper little man assumed a frightful air, an air of abnormality. One sensed that he spoke of tearing out a man's eye with calm enjoyment, as though—as though he had done it before this.

"You're right, hearty," said Ericksen, wetting his lips. "Right-o! No trouble in the after cabin, and there'll be none forward. What were we speakin' of? Oh, yes! Dennis. Well, you go and occupy that room to-night, and do your business to-morrow morning, then go back there. Dennis will mess with me an' the lady to-morrow noon, see? You get me a scrap of his fist—or better, take a squint at it and copy this here entry in the log."

Ericksen took from the table a paper bearing a few lines of writing, on which he had been engaged when Dumont entered, and passed it to his friend. The latter scrutinised the writing, and chuckled softly.

"Oh! For the lady, eh? Ah, what a head you have! It is wasted upon you, my friend. It should have gone with such intelligence as mine."

"You lay off them personal remarks, Frenchy," snapped Ericksen suddenly.

"Aye, matey," retorted the other with mocking air. "Well? What next?"

"You telephone me here right after noon mess. I'll be able to give you Dennis' afternoon programme then. You've got to stop him from taking that train to-morrow night—an' stop him hard! Don't forget to take all his money, either—strip him to the bone."

Dumont shrugged. "What would you? Here in Chicago are the police, and I like them not. It is not as if we were aboard the Pelican, my friend."

"Oh, don't kill him," snapped Ericksen impatiently. "Merely a good stiff jolt that will leave him on his back a few days. And do it at the last minute, too. 'Take no chances, Boatswain,' says the Skipper, 'and if there's any wind in sight, get your top-canvas down.' So do it at the last minute, and then get the train. Have a taxi waiting."

"All right." Dumont straightened up. "Let's go see a picture-show, eh?"

Ericksen assented with a grunt.

Promptly at one o'clock on Monday, Boatswain Joe was waiting in the lobby of the Royton restaurant, when Tom Dennis and Florence were deposited by the elevator. With a cheerful grin on his freckled features, Ericksen approached them.

"Good day to you. 'Two bells,' says you, and two bells it is, all shipshape! It's fine and rosy ye look, ma'am!"

"Thank you, Mr. Ericksen." And under his light-blue predatory eyes the girl blushed as she shook hands. "I've been shopping this morning, and that always makes a woman happy, you know!"

They entered the breakfast-room, where the waiter, mindful of Ericksen's tip, led them to a table by one of the front windows overlooking the Art Institute and the sparkling blue lake front.

"Does it remind you of the sea?" Tom Dennis motioned toward the blue horizon, and smiled at the sailor.

"In a way, yes. It looks like the sea down south, under the Line."

"You've been in the South Seas?" asked the girl quickly. Ericksen met her gaze, and seemed a trifle embarrassed.

"Yes'm, oncet or twicet. I been whalin' with Cap'n Pontifex, you know, all us whalers work off Lower California and across to the islands 'fore going north—that is, we used to. Nowadays things change. 'There's no tellin' at all,' says the Skipper, 'what kind of a wind is rising these days.' And Skipper's right."

"You seem to like your skipper." Florence laughed. "Is he a nice man?"

Ericksen's down-drawn left lip twitched as if in repression of a grimace.

"Nice is as nice does, hey? I reckon he's all right, Miss Hathaway."

"Oh, you mustn't call me that any more," said the girl calmly, and held out her hand. "Look at the present I got an hour ago!"

Ericksen's predatory eyes fastened upon the gold circlet. His face whitened. Tom Dennis, watching intently, saw the man's lips open and form a silent unspoken curse. In the light-blue eyes he read a message of astounded incredulity, of passionate anger.

"You—you've been an' got spliced!" Ericksen, speaking hoarsely, looked at Florence. His face changed suddenly. He plunged to his feet and extended a horny hand across the table toward Dennis.

"Strike me blind!" he ejaculated. "Took me all of a heap, it did! Well, sir, this is a surprise! And only an hour ago, you say? Congratulations, and may you always have a fair course and a bone in your teeth; aye, and a good cargo under hatches! Well, well—strike me blind if I'd thought this was goin' to happen! We'll have a bottle o' fizz-wine, hey? A toast all around—real weddin' dinner! And to think o' me sittin' here with no present, nothin' but an honest sailor-man's hearty good wishes to give—why, it fair breaks me up!"

"Oh, we decided to make the trip West our honeymoon," said Tom Dennis, with a smile at Florence. "It was too good a chance to miss, Boatswain."

"Then—then you're going, hey? To-night?"

"Yes, Mr. Ericksen." Florence nodded. "And believe me, I'd sooner have your good wishes than all the presents in the world! Good wishes mean lots more, don't they?"

"Sometimes, miss. Ha—I mean, Mrs. Dennis—sometimes," assented Ericksen solemnly. "And to think o' you springing it on me that way—why, it took me all aback, it did!"

So the "fizz-wine" came and was drunk with many toasts.

In the course of the luncheon it developed that Florence was to spend the afternoon packing for the trip, and would dine at the school in order to save time. Tom Dennis, who had in view an endeavour to secure orders for some special articles on the West from his former newspaper editors, arranged to call for her in time to make the train that night.

Ericksen insisted upon protracting the luncheon with a second bottle of "fizz-wine" in honour of the occasion; afterward all three departed, and separated at the Adams Street entrance to the "L", where the newly-married couple said farewell to Boatswain Joe.

No sooner had they vanished up the stairway than Boatswain Joe made all haste to his hotel. He found no message at the desk; but when he entered his room he found Dumont awaiting him.

"You—here! What's up, Frenchy?"

Smilingly, Dumont extended him a note Ericksen seized it and examined it with quick approval.

"It was very easily done, my friend," said Dumont, yawning sleepily. "So I came here myself. You seem to be irritated, eh? What is the matter?"

Ericksen gave vent to a full-blown curse.

"Matter enough! Here that swab has been and married her this mornin'!"

Dumont's brows lifted. He uttered a long whistle.

"They are married! Well, Cap'n Pontifex, he will not like that, eh?"

"Blast it!" snarled Ericksen. "Don't you see what it means?"

"More or less," Dumont spat out the words with venom. "It means that the Skipper promised me the girl, eh? And that now he will try——"

"You bloody fool!" roared Ericksen, smashing his big fist down on the table. "Don't it mean squalls ahead of us all? Don't it mean that instead of havin' her to deal with, now we have him too? Don't it mean that he's signed up for a share in old Hathaway's leavin's? And if we don't scuttle him, then he'll scuttle us!"

Dumont caressed his moustache, his dark yes narrowed and alert.

"Mille tonnerre!" he ejaculated slowly. "You are right. He is the old man's son-in-law, eh? Ah, but you have the head, my friend! You see the things, yes! And her signature would be no good, eh?"

Ericksen rammed tobacco into his pipe and held his peace for a moment, until the briar was smoking.

"Now," he said shortly, "that train leaves to-night at one bell?"

"Eight and the half," assented Dumont with a nod.

"He's goin' to call for her about eight bells, see? He'll prob'ly be in his room stowin' his dunnage bag about six bells. You have to scuttle him, Frenchy—all proper. Open the sea-cocks and stand by the ship till she's gone. No mistake!"

"And the madame?" queried Dumont. "Who will call for her?"

"I will. And this here note you've written——"

"Oh, now I understand!" Dumont chuckled softly. "You have the head, my friend! Good. I must scuttle this fellow, eh? Well, it is for all our sakes now. And by the way, I have taken a compartment, so that I could keep my eye on the suitcase better. The Skipper said to be careful. I had to buy another ticket."

Ericksen merely waved his hand carelessly. "You scuttle that swab, Frenchy, and money won't cut no figure. So you'll carry the suitcase, eh? Better send it down to the train ahead of you. 'Don't get your lines tangled,' says the Skipper. You mind that! I'll sleep with you in the compartment, eh? All right."

"All right," assented the other. "I'll send the suitcase down to the train. Now see, my friend! Is it not humorous—what you call the paradox? In order to make our little venture legal, we must first keel a man! Is it not droll!"

Boatswain Joe thrust forward his head, and so terribly threatening were his arrogant light-blue eyes that Dumont flinched a trifle.

"Never you mind your laughin'—it ain't time yet, Frenchy! You mind your course, d'ye see? Fall off a couple o' points and things'll be in a mess, see? You mind your course! You and me have big lays in this thing. If it goes through all shipshape, we'll have money. Now, you let her head fall off and there'll be trouble, see?"

Dumont spread out his hands, Gallic fashion.

"My friend," he said softly, "there is no need for threats. Me, I know what to do. Me, I shall do it, so! But remember one thing, you: on the train, you shall introduce me to the lady, so I shall console her for the absent one. Eh?"

"Agreed!" Ericksen made an impatient gesture. "You're a dago and you can't help settin' your course by a woman, I s'pose. But you better watch out, Frenchy. This here one is married."

Dumont smiled. "I shall attend to that—to-night."

CHAPTER IV
THE SQUARE SUITCASE

Tom Dennis, in the meantime, was making some discoveries.

In the course of the afternoon he dropped in at his old newspaper office with the object of seeing the boys and trying to get some special assignments on the Pacific Coast. In this latter endeavour he was more successful than he had dared hope, for the editor declared at once in favour of a series of articles on the Canadian training-camps in the vicinity of Vancouver, and even spoke of syndicating them.

Thus, when Dennis returned to the city-room, he was in hopeful vein. Most of his old friends were still on the staff, with some new men; he said nothing about his marriage, or about his failure in Marshville, but stated that he had been called to the Pacific Coast on unexpected business, and let it go at that.

Then Margate entered, and gripped his hand with a shout. Margate was the "big man", who covered political conventions and topics of country-wide interest. It appeared that Margate had himself just returned from the Coast where he had been doing some big things with the moving-picture stars. Dennis retired into a corner with him, and in the course of their chat casually inquired:

"I suppose you never heard of a sea-captain out there by the name of Pontifex, did you? It's an odd sort of moniker——"

Margate grinned.

"Heard of him? I should say yes! He's the only chap I ever heard of who put it all over the motion-picture people. Why, they're yelling about it yet!"

"How's that?" asked Dennis in unaffected surprise.

"It seems this chap Pontifex owned an old whaling brig. She was laid up at San Pedro, in pretty bad shape, and the Greatorex people wanted to use her in a couple of scenarios. So Pontifex leased her to them—savvy? About six months ago they got through with her—and then they discovered something. In his lease, Pontifex had slipped over a couple of jokers; they had to refit the old hooker from top to bottom and make her ready for sea. I forget how many thousands it cost them. I remember she was sent up to him at Vancouver, just before I came East, and everyone was slipping the laugh to the Greatorex folks at the way a whaling skipper had put it over them. And believe me, the job was done right! It takes a genius to manage a stunt like that nowadays."

"Then you don't know Pontifex personally?"

"Lord, no! What are you running down, anyhow? Is he a pirate?"

Dennis laughed. "I hope not. I've heard some things about him, though—good human-interest stuff for a magazine feature, if they're true. I'll look him up at Vancouver. What's the name of his ship?"

"The Pelican. Say, if you're there any time, look up my brother; he's doing shipping stuff on The Vancouver Mail. He'll be glad to do the honours, and you might pick up some good dope from him."

When he left the office, Dennis sought the railroad office and bought tickets for himself and Florence to Vancouver, obtaining a compartment; the money which Ericksen had given him, with what he had left of his own, proved quite sufficient. Then, encountering Margate and a couple more men from the office, he went to dinner with them. At seven o'clock he was on the way home to pack.

It had not been a highly romantic wedding-day, he reflected, either for himself or for Florence; but they would have a trip of four days in which to make up for that. The commissions for work at Vancouver were a tremendous aid to Dennis, keeping him from feeling that he was loafing on the job. The money, too, would help. And he anticipated no particular difficulty in getting work. He was one of the well-known men in his profession, and a place would be made for him; he was not a newspaper "tramp". He was not one of the shiftless or incompetent men-of-all-trades who seek the Coast as a haven of refuge. Already, in view of his unexpected marriage and the all-impelling faith of Florence, he had risen above the despondency induced by his Marshville venture.

He had obtained no information from Florence which could serve to throw any light upon Ericksen or Captain Pontifex; she had been entirely ignorant of what knowledge they wished to extract from her or from her paralysed father. Captain Hathaway's last ship, a freighter named the John Simpson, had been lost while en route from San Francisco to Vladivostok. She had gone down with all hands somewhere off the Aleuts, and with Captain Hathaway totally paralysed since his rescue it was unlikely that her story would ever be known.

As Tom Dennis packed together his few belongings, with purchases which he had made that day, he blessed the girl who had that morning married him, and he swore savagely to himself that it would not be for worse, but for better. Not easily had he assented to her proposal; not easily had he grasped her reasons for making it; but now he realized the sheer truth which she had seen from the first. There was no danger whatever that he would be unable to provide the necessities of life. True, heart-trouble, of which he had never before been aware, had barred him from wearing a uniform; but this disease was a remote danger. His ability lay in his head, and he had no doubt about his ability to win a fair living wage. The paralytic Captain Hathaway would be in some ways a burden, but one which Tom Dennis cheerfully assumed.

"With faith in the future and in each other, we would have been fools not to marry!" he confided to his suitcase. "We'll pull through; and we'll make a tenfold better fight for having each other! I'm almost glad that the old Clarion went under——"

He did not hear his door open; nor did he hear the approach of a swift catlike form from the doorway. He did, however, feel the draught from the open door. He half-turned; but he turned only to feel a crashing blow on the head.

Dumont stood over the prostrate figure, softly chuckling, and stowed away the blackjack which had dealt the blow. The figure of Dennis lay motionless, arms outflung; his profile was visible against the rug, and the eyes were closed. His assailant eyed him for a moment, then stepped to the window and drew down the blind. A single electric bulb lighted the room.

Dumont returned to his victim. From his pocket he produced a handkerchief folded and padded with cotton. From another pocket he took a thin flat vial of chloroform which he poured heavily over the handkerchief; the fumes sickened the air. Then he knelt, and put a hand half under Dennis, feeling the heart.

"Good!" he muttered with an air of pride. He spoke in French, his voice low. "It was a good job. The bump on his head will not be observed. They will think it suicide."

And then sudden wild surprise and consternation convulsed his features. His left hand, beneath Dennis, was suddenly seized and twisted by iron fingers. Dumont, a startled oath on his lips, was pulled forward off his balance and fell headlong over his victim. Both bodies heaved madly.

Across the would-be assassin the big figure of Tom Dennis sprawled heavily. Dumont had been entirely taken by surprise. Dennis seized the handkerchief and clapped it over the face of his opponent.

The Frenchman fought. He struggled viciously, silently, desperately; he struck with fists and nails and knees, biting at the hand which held the bandage across his mouth and nose.

"No use, my friend," said Dennis, speaking half-forgotten French. "You didn't hit quite hard enough."

The convulsive struggles of Dumont, held helpless by sheer weight, quieted into jerky movements. Tom Dennis knocked away the saturated handkerchief and turned the limp figure on its face. He shook out the handkerchief and knotted the wet linen about the wrists of Dumont. Then, weakly, he caught at a chair and pulled himself erect.

Dennis felt deathly sick. That clip over the ear had been a shrewd one, and in the closed room the fumes of the narcotic reeked from the bottle which had spilled its entire contents on the floor. Dizzy and staggering, he groped his way to the window and flung it open. He knelt there, his head on the window-sill, bathing himself in the fresh air.

"A near thing!" he muttered. "A near thing!"

How long he lay there he did not know. The sickness, the nausea, passed from him by slow degrees. He gingerly felt his head, finding that the skin was unbroken; a lump had already risen. His senses were still aswim when at length he rose to his feet.

The Frenchman was senseless, but was probably in no danger. Inspecting the man, Dennis remembered to have seen him entering the adjoining room that same evening. But what could have been the motive of this amazing assault by an utter stranger, a fellow lodger with whom he had never exchanged a word? It did not appear to be robbery, for Dumont was well-dressed. The rugged features of Tom Dennis grew hard and harsh as he gazed down, remembering the man's words. The chloroform had not been intended merely to knock him out; it had been intended to kill him! Why?

Stooping, he ran swiftly through the contents of Dumont's pockets. He found an automatic, the bluejack which had struck him and a thin keen knife. He found a wad of yellow-backed bills, which he stuck into his own pocket with a chuckle. He found no letters, nothing else at all—except an envelope such as is issued at railroad ticket offices. In this envelope were two tickets—one the return half of a Vancouver-to-Chicago ticket, the other a one-way ticket from Chicago to Vancouver; and with them was the Pullman ticket calling for a compartment. The date was of this very day, the train that upon which Dennis himself was leaving! In the envelope, also, were two small brass keys.

Dropping into a chair, Tom Dennis frowned over these clues. Could the man have some connection with Ericksen—coming as he had from Vancouver, and being about to return there? Perhaps. Dennis suspected Ericksen, had suspected him from the first. But there was no obvious connection; there was no link of direct accusation. Had Ericksen been behind this assault?

Manifestly this assassin had two tickets so that he could occupy a compartment alone. Why? For what purpose? At this thought Dennis went to his door, passed into the hall and went directly to the next door—that of Dumont's room. He found the room quite empty. Upon the bed was a small valise, but it contained nothing except linen and articles of travel.

"Blamed if I can account for it!" muttered Dennis, returning to his own room. "This fellow meant to bury me; that's certain. I'll keep his money as fair loot. About his two tickets and—hm! I'd better keep them too, and occupy that compartment occasionally. There may be something in it which will give me a clue. I'll do it."

He glanced at his watch, suddenly conscious that time had been passing. He was aghast to find that it was eight o'clock—and the train left at eight-thirty!

With a hasty ejaculation he caught up his suitcase, crammed it shut and after a last glance at the recumbent assassin turned out the light and ran downstairs to the hall telephone. He was too late to call for Florence now; she must catch a taxi to the station!

His first thought was to order a taxicab for himself; then he called up the school where Florence had been teaching. There ensued five minutes—a frantic five minutes—of delay before a cool woman's voice informed him that Miss Hathaway had departed some time before; a gentleman had called for her.

Dennis demanded a description of the man, and recognized Ericksen.

When the taxi appeared, Dennis flung himself into the cab and thrust a bill at the driver with orders to make the station regardless of traffic officers. He saw quite clearly, now, that Ericksen had planned this attempted murder; there was no proof of it, but he needed none. What was the reason behind it? This question maddened Dennis. Was Florence being abducted? Such a thing seemed impossible and incredible, outside a movie scenario.

When Dennis reached the station he had about three minutes left. He took the gate at a rush, showing his tickets hurriedly, and swung aboard the nearest open vestibule of the train just as the porters were picking up their stools.

He found that the compartment-car was up ahead. Since he had his own tickets, with that of Florence, she would certainly not be in their compartment, but probably in one of the Pullmans. So he started through the train, scrutinising each seat as he came to it.

Two cars ahead, he came suddenly upon Florence, who was alone. She sprang up with a glad cry, and Dennis saw that she had been weeping.

"Oh—I knew you'd make it, after all, Tom!" she broke out, her hands going to his.

Dennis stooped and touched her lips with his.

"All right now, old girl," he said, not bothering for an explanation of her words. "Where's Ericksen?"

"He just went forward to arrange about our tickets, he said."

Dennis beckoned to the porter who was approaching. He gave the darky the number of his own compartment and ordered Florence's grips taken there; then he turned to his wife.

"Now, Mrs. Dennis," he said, chuckling as she flushed at the name, "you go to that compartment and wait until I show up, will you please? I have a little business with Mr. Ericksen—and it won't wait a minute!"