The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK ™, Vol. 1: George Allan England. George Allan England

an can’t go on.

      “So long’s you ain’t told? Is that it?”

      He nods.

      “More rum!” he croaks “There—that’s better. Darn my eyes,” says he, “this here liquor’s the only caulkin’ that seems to hold me a bit. That’s right—now I’m good fer a few min­utes again. Listen!”

      IV.

      I listens, with my thoughts doin’ thirty knots on a bow-line. Shifty fights fer breath to go on with.

      All the time I feel he’s crazed—got hal—hal—hallucinations like; is that the word? ’Cause, you see, Tref died natural enough. Everybody knowed all about it. It was open an’ above-board, his takin’ off was.

      Don’t remember it? Bit in mid-ocean by his little pet fox-terrier, that’s all. They crowded sail to make Port­land afore it was too late. Thought mebbe they’d fetch it in time so’s he could git the treatment to head it off.

      An’ would ha’ made it, too, only fer the Benicia Boy springin’ a leak. All hands pumped, includin’ Gash himself. That’s the time Shifty busted a liga­ment in his arm workin’ so unearthly hard at the pumps.

      They pulled her through, but it was too late! The leak done it. Tref, he died just as they was wallerin’ inta port.

      They had to lash him hand an’ foot in his cabin, an’ they say his yells was heerd ’way over on peaks. He busted up all the furniture, too—table an’ everythin’.

      “Shifty’s plumb crazed,” thinks I, rememberin’ it all. “The bilge has got inta his think-tanks an’ fouled ’em.”

      But now he’s at it again.

      “Listen!” he gasps. “Listen, an’ I’ll tell you the livin’ truth about that there time!”

      His eyes is all glassy now an’ beginnin’ to roll up, an’ he’s pantin’ like a cod just afore the gills quivers fer the last time, but he hangs to his job.

      His fingers is just a bendin’ the covers o’ the Book, he clutches it so tight I spills another three-spot o’ rum inta him an’ he revives a mite.

      “Listen!”

      “Aye, aye, mate?”

      “I done it! Me! I murdered him, s’help me Gawd!”

      He’s speakin’ fast now, catchin’ his breath between words, like he’s scared he won’t get through in time.

      “It was this way!”

      “How?”

      “Sallie! Sallie was at the bottom of it, Ame!”

      “Th’ devil you say! Why—”

      “Shut up an’ listen! Stow your jaw-tackle, can’t you, an’ gimme a show? Gash was cap’n. I was mate. Helsingfors to Portland, cargo—lum­ber—”

      “Blast the cargo! What hap­pened?”

      “Sixteen days out the dog run mad. All up an’ down decks, through the waist, even inta the galley an’ aft deck­house—snappin’ snarlin’—froth a flyin’—”

      “Cut that part out. I’ve seen ’em myself. How ’bout Gash?”

      “Some of us ducked below; some aloft. Tref, he swung for the terrier with a capstan-bar, by th’ mizzen there—an’ missed; the cur got him in th’ left hand—

      “Next wallop he caved it. Swung it by the leg an’ hove it outboard. Sucked the wound, Ame, an’ burned it out with the galley poker; she wuz white hot. God! I can smell that sizzle yet, fryin’ like— An’ then we crowded sail—”

      The coughin’ choked him. I see he’s goin’ by the head already, settlin’ fast, an’ puts the raw stuff to him hard.

      He gulps it all, an’ rests a minute, propped up there in bed, with the lamp a shinin’ in his eyes.

      “I better git a doctor,” says I. “You—”

      “You anchor right there, Ame, an’ lemme save my soul, you loblolly idjit! Don’t you shift moorings now—hold hard—”

      “Go on!”

      “We’d had words, him an’ me had, afore then about Sal—more’n once. Never knowed, did you, Tref wanted to splice her? True, s’help me! An’—an’ so did I!”

      “You? Why—”

      “’Vast your jaw! More’n two v’yages I’d been turnin’ it in my mind. Fine big gal, money in bank, owned an A1 stand o’ buildin’s—no man of her own, an’ needed one my size. Why not?”

      “She ever look at you?”

      “Mebbe so, an’ mebbe not. But I calculated with a fair show—”

      “What you mean? Was Gash on that course, too?”

      Shifty nods, an’ for the first time I see his eyes grow wet. He looks at me stiddy, too, which is strange fer him.

      “Say, Ame!”

      “Huh?”

      “Any more in that square-face?”

      I give him all there was.

      “Got more?” says I.

      “No. This—this’ll see me to port. I’m—’most—saved now. Come here! Stand by, Ame, so—”

      “Let go all hawsers, Shifty! Let her come!”

      “Third or fourth day out o’ the Skager Rack I has words with Gash in his cabin.

      “‘Cap’n,’ says I, respectful, fer I knowed my place—‘cap’n,’ says I, ‘would you gam a bit with me, not as cap’ to mate, but as man to man? Would you, just a bit?’ says I.”

      “Well, would he?”

      “Tref was a square man, I’ll ’low, even if he did rough things a bit now an’ then. I didn’t hold no gredge ’count o’ them teeth o’ mine he batted out.

      “No; the trouble was all along o’ Sallie. Well, he squints at me sharp-like a minute an’ then he says, says he: ‘Fire away!’

      “‘See here, Gash,’ says I, ‘how you stand with Sal Hannaford, back there to Mariners’ House? I seen a few thing’s made me think mebbe—”

      “‘Mebbe I was wantin’ to lay long-side an’ take that craft in tow?’ he asks, laughin’. ‘All right. Fair an’ square question. Square answer. You’re dead right, Shifty, old man,’ says he. ‘I do—an’ what’s more, I will! Next time in Portland!’ says he an’ laughs agin.

      “‘You won’t!’ says I. ‘’Cause I’m a bigger man than you, an’ by that same token she’s mine!’

      “‘She ever say so?’ he inquired, earnest.

      “‘No. How ’bout you?’

      “‘No more to me, neither; but if a look means anythin’—’ says he.

      “‘I’ve had a look myself,’ says I, ‘that’s what you’re navigatin’ on. Mebbe one an’ a half. Now see here,’ says I, ‘I make you an offer. One or t’other of us has got to up-stick an’ away from this here course.

      “‘When we make Portland,’ says I,’ there’s a quiet bit o’ beach over on Cushing’s where two seafarin’ men could meet an’ argy out a proposition, fair an’ proper like, with their bare fists. Winner takes all,’ says I. ‘How ’bout it?’

      “Split my tops’l if he don’t laugh an’ gimme the grip on it!

      “‘Done!’ says