The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

special blowout. Some old-time chief’s birthday. Wouldn’t miss it for worlds. Not for ladies, of course, but you don’t often see one nowadays. Come along, Skipper. My bid extends to him, eh, chaps?”

      One of the local yachtsmen heartily extended the invitation. The ladies of the commodore’s party were in the launch’s cabin out of hearing. The affair was evidently considered notable. Jim did not feel in the mood for it, but he could understand Newton’s eagerness. He’d be no use the next day for anything but sleep, but that would not affect the work aboard. As a sailor, Newton Foster was so far more of a nuisance than an aid. His main asset was spasmodic willingness.

      “Don’t get lost in the jungle,” Jim returned. “I’m obliged, but I’ve got a lot on hand. Hope to get out of here close to noon. Good night.”

      The launch backed off, turned and sped for shore. Jim descended to find the main cabin empty, and he turned in. At five he was on deck again. Baker, the conscientious mate, was up and the men were swashing and swabbing deck. Neilson and Wood were in their bunks. The smell of early coffee was in the air. Davos, the Greek, was cooking his last meal aboard. Jim had tried the door of Newton’s cabin as he passed. It was unlocked, the bunk empty. He gave an order to preserve quiet on deck. He would let the women sleep until later, though he wanted to get them ashore as early as possible to clear up their errands. He had determined on one thing during the night. To have a talk with Lynda Warner concerning his own suspicions, past and present, of the Fosters, the matter of the cablegram and of Swenson’s appearance. He was sure of her commonsense and judgment and her friendly feeling toward him. He would put the question up to her as how much should be told Kitty Whiting. As the head of the enterprise, the one vitally interested, Jim felt that perhaps she should be informed of matters that he doubted whether it would be politic for him to mention.

      He went aft to the galley and got a cup of coffee. The tide was flooding, the stern of the Seamew had swung toward the land. Jim saw a shore boat approaching, propelled by an ancient Hawaiian, gray-headed, his shoulders covered with flower leis. In the stern were three figures, intertwined, wearing black coats and white trousers, all jovial, friendly to all the wide world, singing a quasi-native song with more spirit than harmony. Here came Newton Foster with two of his companions of the night before! Jim called through the hollow of his hands.

      “Tone down a bit there. Ladies asleep!” The trio stared at him half stupidly as the boat came alongside, but they stopped singing. Newton arose, swaying uncertainly while the others supported him none too efficiently.

      “’S all ri’, Skip. Trifle hilarious as effect of circum-circumventing the Eighteenth ’mendment. Yesh, sir. Native juice of the vine, squeezed from the root of the ti plant. Am I ri’, fellers? Sounds mixed but the stuff is prime. Maiti nui. Thash Hawaiian for heap good, Skip! I learned a lot las’ ni’. Wouldn’t have missed it for worldsh. No, shir. Wonnerful hos—hos—hoshpitality. Glorioush time. Goo’ ni’. I mean goo’ mornin’.”

      He started to sing again at the top of the sideladder, but Jim grabbed him by the arm and he gathered himself together.

      “Thash ri’. Mushn’t wake the ladiesh. Skip’, pu’ me to bed an’ lemme sleep.”

      Jim got him below, got his pajamas on him and turned him into his bunk where he promptly composed himself for sleep after insisting that his wreaths be placed about his neck.

      “Emblems of love an’ frenship, Skip, Everlashtin’ tokens of glorioush hoshpitality. Goo’ ni’! God bless you, Skip. You ought t’ have been along. Goo’ ni’.” Jim left him snoring stertorously.

      At the eight o’clock breakfast he excused Newton, stating the bald truth that he had returned late and needed sleep.

      “I heard him come aboard,” said Lynda Warner with a twinkle in her eyes, but no further remarks, confirming herself to Jim as a good sport. After the meal, while Kitty wrote a letter she had overlooked, Jim had his talk with Lynda Warner.

      “You don’t think very highly of Stephen Foster, I believe,” he started.

      “What makes you think so?”

      He told her frankly.

      “I think that he is cold-blooded and unscrupulous in business,” she said. “In many things he would take great pains to do what he considered the exactly just thing. I do not think him generous. And I have known him not entirely selfish. He thinks the world of Newton. Newton himself does not strike me as a natural conspirator.”

      “H’m” said Jim. Lynda had not given him a wide opening. “Do you think Stephen Foster considers this trip a business matter?”

      She looked at him with shrewd approval. “Absolutely so,” she answered.

      Then he told her his news while she listened carefully.

      “I do not see any good in mentioning this to Kitty,” she answered. “Much of it is suspicion, and suspicion against people who are closely connected to her. Newton is her blood relative. It might not help your standing with her. You have nothing really definite. If that was Swenson it means only that we must be doubly careful. You see, Jim—” she laid her hand on his arm as she spoke his personal name for the first time, “you see, Kitty thinks of nothing but her father. Anything else is superficial, as superficial as the affair of that dinner and dance last night. To which you should have come—clothes or no clothes.

      “As for the cable, I know that Stephen Foster sometimes goes to Cuba. He has heavy interests there in sugar. So that may clear Newton up. I don’t see how anyone is going to get those figures. We sha’n’t have a chance to mail them ahead to Fiji, I understand. Swenson may be tricky and desperate in his methods, but he can hardly come aboard and take the diary by force. Just what are you most afraid of?”

      “If it was Swenson, he must either hope to get hold of the figures or he will have to trail us. If he could manage to do that I have no doubt but that he would try to capture the pearls, after we had secured them from the Golden Dolphin. What we have got to do is to keep him from getting the position, and to shake him off if he attempts to follow. Once we get down there we are first going to try to find Captain Whiting, though I can’t help but be doubtful over the outcome of that. If Swenson makes an attack, providing he discovers us, then we must hold him off. Those are risks you should not be subjected to, but I suppose there is no use trying to dissuade Miss Kitty.”

      “Not in the least. Nor me. We are well armed. So far we haven’t practiced with the weapons. Why not do it from now on? Here comes Kitty. I’m glad we had this talk. Are we all going ashore together? I don’t mean Newton. As I said, I heard him come aboard.”

      Next to the shipping commissioner’s office on the Honolulu waterfront there is—or was—an agency for the employment of sailing men. Once it was notorious for its connection with the sailors’ boarding house of Lewis & Turk, a pair of thugs who made their living by shanghaiing beachcombers and others unfortunate enough to get into their clutches or within reach of their blackjacks and brass knuckles. Prohibition has done more than any law to do away with the crimping game. Liquor was the bait and the drug of waterfront victims. Nowadays the employment agency is conducted on a most respectable basis. There you may obtain names and get in touch with all available mariners; even mates registering. Captain, cook or cabin boy, steward, supercargo, sailor, engineer or boat-steerer, if there are any available Renny & Green, now occupying the abandoned premises of Lewis & Turk, will fill your needs.

      When Jim stated his need of a cook, the clerk took him up, asking the length of voyage, number of passengers and crew, list of duties, wages, etc., marking them all down on a form.

      “Chinaman?” he asked.

      “Preferred.”

      “One in this morning. Good man. Been a restaurant cook. A bit of a highflier, is Li Cheng. But a good cook and I imagine it’s because he has been skinned at fan-tan that he wants a job where he’ll have to save up till he’s got another stake.”

      “Seasick?”

      “Oh, he’s cooked aboard ship