The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

reporter with the commodore of the Hawaii Yacht Club in the stern-sheets, his rowers two island yachtsmen, was not so easily dismissed. The commodore was intent upon doing the honors, anxious to save them trouble, eager to make things comfortable for the ladies. Almost by force the courteous Corinthian secured their promise to dinner at the Moana Hotel, promising to call for them in ample time, to take them to Waikiki in motors and to have his wife and other ladies present.

      “You are making a trip we all envy you,” he said, “You must allow us to give you bon voyage. Perhaps we can persuade you to stay over a while.”

      “When we come back,” temporized Kitty. “We have our schedule all laid out to reserve some of the best for the way home.” Jim did not go with them. He watched Newton array himself in dinner jacket and white flannels, in silk shirt and hose, in yachting cap and buckskin shoes, and he did not care to display his own rough serge and ducks and coarser shoes—less as a matter of self-pride than from a feeling that he would be a dull patch on a bright party. A dinner at the Moana, with the hints the commodore had thrown out of a Hawaiian orchestra and dancing to follow, was not in his line. Of one-steps and fox-trots Jim knew as little as he did of small talk or playing the ukulele. But he appreciated the look in Kitty’s eyes when she heard he was not going. It was distinctly a look of disappointment.

      “I wouldn’t have accepted if I had known our skipper was not going,” she said.

      “The skipper has got plenty to do aboard if we are going to get away tomorrow,” answered Jim.

      Then the commodore arrived, in a launch this time, with ladies aboard who mounted to the deck of the Seamew, chatting and laughing with Kitty and Lynda and Newton. Jim was presented—and received as a superior sort of hired man, he told himself with a touch of bitterness for which he was duly ashamed, though the matter had been aggravated by hearing the gay laugh of Kitty coming back from the launch as it sped shorewards.

      He went ashore himself, later on. There was really nothing for him to do aboard. He gave general shore leave, Walker volunteering to remain as ship-keeper.

      “’Onolulu mykes me sick the w’y it is now,” he said. “Hused to be a live plyce. You Hamericans ’ave fair spoiled it. Wot’s the good of a bloomin’ seaport wivout wine, wimmen an’ song? W’ot charnce ’as a pore sailor got to get any of that ’ere? The Japs ’ave chivvied the natives out; the Hamericans ’ave took orl their money aw’y from them. Prohibishun ’as bloody well finished it. I’ll stay aboard an’ look at old Punchbowl. Bet they’ll change the nyme of that to Teacup, afore they get through.”

      It was not Jim’s first visit to the island. He walked to a square where the band was playing, taking a seat in the shadows under the palms. The bandstand alone was illuminated; the square was dusky, save where splotches of brilliant moonlight broke through the plumy foliage and laced the turf that was thickly set with clumps of hibiscus and crotons, here and there touching with silver a gown or the white drill of an escort.

      The band played jazz and dreamy waltzes and at last crashed into Hawaii Ponoi. Jim started to stroll off, a lonely mood upon him. As he passed along a path close to the rail of the park, screened off by double hedges, broken now and then by spaces in which were seats facing toward the bandstand, he paused to light his pipe. With the burning match in his cupped hands, poised above the unlit tobacco, he forgot his smoke. Four men occupied a seat perhaps twelve feet away from him. They were talking earnestly in low tones, oblivious of the music and the crowd, intent upon their own purposes. Their backs were toward him. The arm of one lay along the back of the seat as its owner leaned forward emphasizing some point to his comrades. There was something about his bulk that was vaguely familiar to Lyman. A splash of moonlight lay along the cuff of the coat, exposing thick wrist and hand. The two last were hairy, with reddish, spidery furring. On the back of the hand was a tattoo mark of some kind, plain in the brilliant spot of the moonbeam. Jim’s keen eyes were aided by sudden memory. The device, in indigo a little faded but visible enough, was a fouled anchor, with the rope continued to make a circle and frame to the design. It was the hand of Hellfire Swenson. Hellfire, whom Jim had last seen firing at him as he swam into the fog off Cuttyhunk, thousands of miles away!

      It might have been the striking of his match—it all happened so swiftly—but a man’s face turned toward him, the third man on the seat, not Swenson, whose arm remained in the same position. Out of the shadow Jim could see no more than an impression of a face with black moustaches and beard trimmed to a point. The blob of light on Swenson’s hand was the only highlight and that vanished as the breeze swayed the long palm fronds above. But Jim, blowing out his match, realized that his own features had been clearly shown. When the dab of moonlight returned the tattooed hand had been removed, and the four men were talking together as if Jim was of no moment. For a pulse beat or two he paused, then walked on, lighting another match. He was quite sure this was Swenson. Who the others were he did not know. It would do him no good to confront him. If Swenson thought Jim had not recognized him it was just as well. It was possible that the black-bearded chap had not known who Jim was.

      Jim turned and strolled back. The quartet were gone, vanished in the crowd breaking up after the concert, leaving only romantic couples.

      Swenson’s presence meant what? That he was still after the pearls? That Jim’s dive from the rail had convinced him he had been given the wrong figures? He might have been so advised. Somehow Jim connected his appearance with the cablegram sent from San Francisco. Was Swenson trailing the Seamew in his own schooner, foiled through Kitty Whiting’s cleverness at having kept the diary in her safe and later mailing it ahead to Honolulu? There was no schooner in Honolulu Harbor that answered to Swenson’s vessel.

      For Jim to attempt to interfere with Swenson on account of what happened at Buzzards Bay was, as Stephen Foster had pointed out, only provocative of unwanted publicity. The authorities of Hawaii might well excuse themselves from jurisdiction. Probably would. But Hellfire had some schemes on hand that must be blocked. That was certain. He would hardly attempt more kidnapping, or appear openly in any endeavor to obtain the figures. Back on the mainland he appeared to have affiliations and some power, wide reaching and effective, doubtless tied up with his illicit liquor enterprises. On the island of Oahu he could not carry out his plans with such ease. That Hellfire, given the opportunity, would not stop short of piracy in the hope of a fortune, Jim was very sure. Nor would piracy stop him.

      At present the pearls were doubly guarded, by the position of the island and by the lack of knowledge of the secret hiding-place aboard the stranded ship. Kitty Whiting alone held that key. Jim doubted whether even Lynda Warner knew where the hiding-place was. Kitty’s pretty head held wisdom and caution. So long as she was protected, all was well. After this, Jim resolved to play bodyguard no matter how awkward he might feel in certain situations.

      He decided to say nothing about Swenson. He could make inquiry as to whether a power schooner had lately entered the port. He did not know the name, but it was not likely that more than one of her type would have come in within the past three weeks, though it was likely that Swenson, if appearing as her captain, would have changed his name.

      As he walked back toward the waterfront Jim began to wonder if he might have been mistaken. He had seen such devices before. The ordinary tattooer at such ports as Honolulu, San Francisco or Shanghai had stock devices from which his customers chose. Duplication was frequent. Jim had not actually seen Swenson’s face. Perhaps he was developing nerves—on the girl’s account.

      The men had orders not to spend the night ashore. Some of them were back when Jim returned to the Seamew at five bells. All were aboard by seven bells. Neilson and Wood had the anchor watch; the rest had turned in. Jim, smoking, pacing the deck, waited. Midnight sounded, the sharp strokes of ships’ bells in a mingled chime all about the harbor. One bell at last, and then a launch put off from shore. Jim ordered Neilson and Wood to stand by the ladder and effaced himself in the shadow. He saw the figures of the two women come overside and go below after laughing good-nights. There was no sign of Newton. Jim went to the rail and saw him in the light that came from the cabin of the launch. He was in the cockpit aft with another man both smoking cigarettes. His face was flushed and boyishly eager. Jim called down to him.

      “I’m not