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Updated: May 22, 2025
The Swede slumped in one seat, with our dunnage piled by his side, wheezing profanely as the lurching of the hack over the cobblestones jolted the sea-bags against him, and grunting at my efforts to make conversation. Newman sat by my side. Once he spoke. "You are sure the lady sails, Swede?" was what he said. "Ja, I have it vrom Swope, himself," the crimp replied.
The great scar stood out like a dark line painted upon his forehead. He lifted Swope from his feet with that throat grip. He whirled him like a flail, and smashed him down upon the deck, and let him go. And there Yankee Swope lay, sprawled, and still, his head bent back at a fatal angle.
"We must make sure of that he's our navigator." "That's so," he agreed. "But how'll you do it?" "I'll kill Captain Swope," I said. I was in earnest. I meant to do the murder. Aye, murder is what the law of man would call it, and murder is the right term. I planned the deed, not in cold blood perhaps, but certainly with coolness and foresight.
Then I knew what Captain Swope meant when he screamed for "flares." Distress flares, signal flares, such as a ship in trouble might use. He had stocked the roundhouse with them. Cunning, aye, deadly cunning. This was something Boston and Blackie had not dreamed of. A flare thrown on deck when the men came aft and slaughter made easy for the defenders of the roundhouse!
Aye, the parson tied the knot, for this life and next, as he said, and I was best man, and Captain Lynch gave away the bride. A minister in dungaree! "Mary Swope, do you take this man " that was how he put it. And though the lady's face was wan and haggard, yet there was a glory in it beyond power to describe. And then they cast off from the ship, those two who were now one.
He leaned forward, and watched Newman with hawklike intensity. But Newman gave him little cause to chortle; his head dropped again upon his breast, and he gave no sound, no movement. "Why don't you call on God?" asked Swope. "Why don't you call on me?" Newman lifted his head. "You degenerate beast!" he said.
For I truly believe the lady suffered vicariously for every blow that bruised a sailor's flesh on board the Golden Bough! "Yes, I must look to my medicines," she replied to Swope. "I see they will be required." There was no active hate in her voice, or in her eyes, but she looked at the man much as one looks at some loathsome yet inevitable object a snake, or a toad.
He paused, a set smile on his lips, and for a moment their eyes met in the baleful glare which rival wolves, the leaders of their packs, confer upon each other. Then Hardy stepped out into the open, holding up his hand for peace. "You are mistaken, Mr. Swope," he said quietly. "Jeff hasn't shot up any camps he hasn't even packed a gun for the last three days."
He, who was largely responsible for Nils' death, had come forward upon this errand because he knew or Swope knew his presence would enrage Nils' mates. The Chinese steward, or the tradesmen alone, could have taken Nils' gear without raising a murmur from the squareheads, but quite naturally they would resent Fitzgibbon's pawing over the poor lad's treasures.
The tone of these comments must have been set by the flattering and sympathetic utterances of Ambassador Gerard and the journalist Swope, on the subject of the new Secretary of State, and a longer article by Gilbert Hirsch published by the New York Evening Post and other papers under the heading 'Our Friend Zimmermann. The note struck by this article and by the German Press comments transmitted and printed everywhere over here, that Herr Zimmermann is a particularly warm friend of the United States was joyfully echoed by the whole American Press.
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