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Updated: August 3, 2024
"If we go out of this chart-house," said Sheriff doubtfully, "they'll swamp us by sheer weight. You must remember we've only got two pistols, yours and mine. The poor old skipper's is lost." "I'm going to try what a little quiet talking-to will do first, sir. I used to be a bit useful with my tongue, if I haven't lost the trick.
The deck-chairs were on that side, so I stole around on the starboard side of the chart-house in order to fling overboard unobserved the dreadful thing I carried. But, drying on the surface in the tropic heat and still pulsing inside, it stuck to my hand, so that it was a bad cast.
In the meantime I was devising another way to overcome that deadly ventilator shaft. The scheme was so simple that I was shamed in that it had not occurred to me at the very beginning. The slitted opening was small. Two sacks of flour, in a wooden frame, suspended by ropes from the edge of the chart-house roof directly above, would effectually cover the opening and block all revolver fire.
An hour later we made our way across the poop to the chart-house, helping each other to maintain footing as the Elsinore plunged and bucked in the rising sea and was pressed over and down by the weight of wind on her few remaining set sails. The wind, which had lulled after the rain, had risen in recurrent gusts to storm violence. But all was well with the gallant ship.
The ivory merchant led the way to the chart-house. "Be quick, boys she might sink," he stuttered.
I met him just forward of the chart-house, and the manner in which he eyed me was immediate proof that he remained uninformed as to my new status on board. "How you com' on ze deck, M'sieur?" he asked, his eyes threatening. "By Gar, I thought you down below, locked in all tight," and he waved an expressive hand aft. I laughed, but without paying him the compliment of looking at him.
The watches will be changing, and we'll have the use of both of them, without working a hardship on the watch below by calling it out now." And when both watches were on deck Captain West, again in oilskins, came out of the chart-house. Mr. Pike, out on the bridge, took charge of the many men who, on deck and on the poop, were to manage the mizzen-braces, while Mr.
But when the second officer left him, and he was steeped once more in the fresh breeze and the sunshine, with his shoulders braced against the chart-house, he looked at a smoke trail on the horizon far away to the west. "Queenstown!" he chuckled. "Not this journey not if my name's Jimmie Coke, the man 'oo is stannin' on all that is left of 'is 'ard-earned savin's.
They were not exactly sailors Mr. Mellaire sneeringly called them the "bricklayers" but they had successfully refused subservience to the gangster crowd. To cross the deck from the chart-house to the break of the poop was no slight feat, but I managed it and hung on to the railing while the wind stung my flesh with the flappings of my pyjamas.
Hugh Wenlock put a couple of bunk pillows on a canvas boat-cover under the bridge deck awnings, and lay there and amused himself with cigarettes and a magazine. Captain Owen Kettle sat before a table in the chart-house with his head on one side, and a pen in his fingers, and went through accounts.
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