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"
Tom Dennis sat on a printer's stool besidea very dirty window which dimly illuminedhis figure, and stared at the gloomsurrounding him. His rawboned face wasdejected; his angular body slumpeddespondently. In his hand was a little sheaf ofpapers.
It was five-thirty in the afternoon. Longsince, the grist of evening papers had gonethrough the big press; the rollers had beenwashed and retired; the men had gone home.It was Saturday night, and the week's workwas done. So was The Marshville Clarion,as Tom Dennis cheerlessly admitted tohimself.
The high-school lad who assisted Dennisin gathering local items and filling thecolumns of The Clarion had not returnedas usual from the Saturday baseball game towrite up his notes from a fresh memory.Dennis had instructed him not to returnuntil Monday—and not to return then unlesssent for.
Silence and the darkness of departing daylay funereally upon the big back room.Presses and stones and type-racks filled thefloor. Always dingy and dark, this roomnow seemed to feel the approach of dissolution.The smell of printing-ink hung uponthe air like incense strewn by dead hands.The Clarion had issued its own obituary.
Tom Dennis suddenly moved. To thedim light of the unwashed window he heldthe papers in his hand. They were bills.Each of them was stamped "Paid". Ashe looked at them, Tom Dennis uttered amirthless bitter laugh.
"Paid!" he said, his voice ringing hollowlyin the emptiness of the big back room."Paid, by heavens—and not a cent to spare!And the bank holds a mortgage on thisplant! I can sell the typewriters for fiftydollars; I'll have to do it to get out oftown!"
The outer door, the door of the frontoffice, banged, and there was a heavy treadthat ceased abruptly. Tom Dennis paid noheed to it; he sensed that someone hadentered, but it was of no concern to himwhat passed in the outer office.
"Done!" he said morosely. "I'm done!It's been the dickens of a pull, this yearhas—and now I'm done."
He was