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Perils of Pauline (dramatic reading)

<h1 id="id00356" style="margin-top: 5em">CHAPTER V</h1> <h5 id="id00357">THE PIRATE AND PAULINE</h5> A sort of false quiet, like the calm that broods between storms, kept all serene at the Marvin mansion for a week after the aeroplane catastrophe. Little had been seen of Harry, who was busy with directors' meetings and visits to the factories. Owen had read with alarm of rumors that some one had tampered with a wire of the wrecked biplane. But if the authorities were investigating he saw no signs of it, and suspicion pointed no finger at him. What puzzled and worried Owen more than anything else was his own mind and behavior. Having no belief in the supernatural, he could not account for the dream which had thrown him into a criminal partnership with Hicks. Hicks had blackmailed him in the past, and there was nobody he had feared and hated more than this vulgar and disreputable race track man. Yet Hicks had appeared to him in a dream, and Owen had promptly done his bidding, involving himself in what would probably turn out to be murder. The newspapers reported the French aviator as barely living from day to day. Owen suffered the torment of a lost soul, but, at least he had no more dreams, or spectral visitations. Hicks called him on the telephone once or twice, but the secretary refused to talk. Pauline, too, had a busy week. Besides her usual social activities, she rewrote and finished her new story. It seemed to her even better than the one in the Cosmopolitan Magazine. "This will surely be taken," Pauline thought with a little sigh of regret, "and that means the end of my year of adventures—" She had determined on this course the night after the accident. It was after midnight, and Pauline was trying to marshal the exciting recollections of the day into the orderly mental procession that leads to sleep. Very faintly she heard what sounded like the music of a distant mandolin. Pauline knew it was Harry, went to the open window and looked down on the dark lawn. There he was playing with a bit of straw instead of a pick that his music might not disturb the sleepers in the house. Pauline wanted to throw her arms around him and promise not to cause any more worry. But she didn't, because she couldn't reach him from the window. After Harry had gone Pauline decided to finish her story, send it to a publisher and let his decision be hers. "If they accept it, you stay home and marry Harry," she told the pretty face under the filmy night cap which smiled at her from the mirror. "But if they dare reject it, Harry will have to worry, dear boy though he is." So Pauline lost no time in finishing and submitting her manuscript, inclosing a special delivery stamp and a request please to let her know at once. On Saturday Pauline received a bulky letter in the morning's mail. It was her neatly typed manuscript and a short letter declining her story. The editor thought it charming, showed wonderful imagination, gave great promise of future success, but there was a lack of experience evident throughout—a little unreal, he added. He ventured to suggest that the author would do well to travel around and see the world from different angles. During the afternoon Harvey Schieffelin dropped in for a call. He had found her story in the Cosmopolitan and complimented her then he began to laugh. "Polly, that's a bully story of yours, but you ought to have gone down and watched some stokers do work before you described that scene." "What was wrong in my description?" demanded the young authoress. "Well, you told of a stoker laying his grimy hand on the fire door and pulling it open to rake the fire." "Well, couldn't he do that?" "Oh, yes," laughed Harvey, "he could, but he wouldn't do it more than once. Those doors are almost red hot and would bum the flesh off the stoker's hand, whether it were grimy or not. I'll show you on my yacht some time. What you need is—?" "Harvey, don't you dare tell me I need experience," interrupted Pauline with unexpected heat. Young Schieffelin saw that tears were almost in her eyes. "Well," thought Schieffelin, "this vein leads too close to water," and he hurried to shift the course of the conversation. But the damage was done. Pauline took her story to the little open fireplace in her room and destroyed it. At the same time she destroyed, her resolution to give up the year of adventure. There could be no question, she needed experience. Her adopted father had admitted it, the editor had said it, and even an empty-headed young man like Schieffelin could see it. She was sorry for Harry, but it couldn't be helped. She picked up a copy of "Treasure Island" and soon wished fervently that the days of pirates were back again. Owen gave up his fight against morphine late Friday night. Saturday he was at peace with the world. Gone were all the nerve clamorings and with them went his scruples. All day he kept a furtive watch upon Pauline, and even heard her envious remarks about pirates to Harry when he returned for a weekend at home. Owen sympathized with Pauline in her regret that pirates were extinct. A pirate would have been very useful to the secretary just then. However, there were other cut-throats, plenty of them, and perhaps some other kind would do. There were gunmen, for instance, but, an honest District Attorney had lately made these murderous gentlemen of the underworld almost as quiet as pirates. He was still pondering when Hicks called again on the telephone. This time the secretary responded and made an immediate appointment in a cafe near Forty-second street. Owen related the events of the week, ending with Pauline's hankering for pirates. The two men got their heads together and rapidly evolved a plan. From the cafe they took a taxi and rode along the water front, first on one side of the island of Manhattan and then on the other. The cab stopped near the worst-looking saloons, while the two schemers entered and looked over the sailors and longshoremen refreshing themselves at the bars. After covering several miles of water front they had collected as many as a dozen abominable barroom cigars and a few equally dubious drinks, but had not yet found what they were looking for. On Front Street they saw a man, and both cried out: "Look, there he is." The man was a wild-looking specimen. He had the rolling gait of the deep sea. A squinting eye gave him a villainous leer, while a bristly beard and long gray hair made him a ferocious spectacle. His age was doubtful, as the lines in his ruddy skin might have been cut by dissipation as much as age. The most prominent feature of his unlovely countenance was a nose, fiery red from prolonged exposure to sunburn, or rum-bum. "If he isn't a pirate he ought to be one," said Owen. The man carried the top of a ship's binnacle, as the round brass case which holds a ship's compass is called. He entered the dismal portal of a marine junk shop. The taxi was stopped discreetly a block away. As Owen and Hicks approached the shop they heard a loud argument going on inside. "How much do you want for it?" "Ten dollars. It's a brand-new Negus." "Ten nothing. You stole it, you son of a sea cook. I'll give you a dime for it." "I did not steal it, so help me —— ———! The captain of that 'lime juicer' over in the North River gave it to me for saving his little gal's life. He begged me to take anything I wanted, but I fancied this. I'll tell you about it." Then Owen and Hicks, listening just outside, heard a fearful and wonderful tale. To relate it in the sailor's own words, stripped of the long deep-sea oaths, would be as impossible as to pick the green specks out of a sage cheese. In brief, the gentleman with the binnacle, sauntering innocently along the docks Friday night, had heard a commotion on the British tramp which he referred to as a "lime juicer." Some fifteen or more long-shoremen had invaded the ship, overcome the captain, tied him down and were about to kidnap his daughter. The teller of the story had walked in and thrashed them all single-handed, driven them off into the darkness, rescued the little girl and released the captain. In gratitude the commander had made him a present of the binnacle head. At the conclusion of the story there was a pause, then the other voice answered: "You're a wonder. As I said before, I'll give you ten cents for the binnacle and ninety cents for the story. Now you can take it or I'll have you pinched for swiping it." "Gimme the dollar," said the hero of the tale, and a moment later he passed down the street with the two eavesdroppers at his heels. The sailor man, proceeding at a rapid pace, suddenly turned a comer like a yacht jibing around a buoy and plunged into a dingy saloon. Owen and Hicks went in after him. Owen ordered and invited the sailor to join them. They learned that his name was Nelson Cromwell Boyd, that he had deserted from the British navy at a tender age, and since then had been through a series of incredible adventures and injustices, which disproved the old adage that you can't keep a good man down. At last Owen intimated that he had a business proposition to discuss, and they adjourned to the sidewalk. "Do you want to earn some money?" asked Hicks. "Well, that depends," said Boyd, doubtfully. "Easy money," suggested Owen. "That's the only kind worth going after," commented the sailor. "That's where we agree with you, my friend," said Hicks. "We are after easy money and plenty of it. Plenty for us and plenty for you, too, if you can keep quiet about it." "That's the kind of talk I like to hear. But as honest man to honest man, I want to warn you that there mustn't be too much work to it. I don't believe in the nobility of labor. I believe that work is the crowning shame and humiliation of the human race. It's all right for a horse or a dog or an ox to work, but a man ought to be above it. It's degrading, interferes with his pleasures and wastes his time." "I feel the same way," agreed Owen, "but somebody has got to work to make shoes and food for us." "Yes," admitted the sailor, "regretfully there will always have to be some work done, and I'm sorry for the poor guys that must do it. But there's been too much work done." "Those sentiments are very noble," said Owen. "It's all very fine to worry about your fellow man. But you would like to have plenty of money even if the rest of the world is fool enough to keep on working." "I suppose so," said the sailor, "but I'm a reformer and my business is to talk, not work." "That's just what we want you to do," said Owen and Hicks in answer. Then they found a table in the rear of a saloon where they could unfold their plan. Boyd was to be introduced to a foolish young girl who had a barrel of money. He was to tell her a deep-sea yam along certain lines, and Owen and Hicks would take care of the rest. "The question is," said Owen, "whether you can talk and act like a sort of reformed pirate." "Leave that to me," he assured them, and led the way out of the saloon and into still another grimy and disreputable place. It was Axel Olofsen's pawnshop and second-hand general supply and clothing store. After much pawing over ancient, worn and rusty weapons, Boyd was at last fitted out. Ole was paid about sixty per cent of what he asked and left to the enjoyment of his Scandinavian melancholy. "You look like a pirate now, sure enough," said Owen, observing Boyd's effect on the driver of the taxicab. "I look it, but I don't quite feel it yet," said Boyd, with deep meaning. "There is something lacking." "What can it be?" asked Hicks. "About three fingers of red-eye," the sailor explained, pointing to a saloon. "That will make my disguise just perfect." In the saloon Hicks and Owen made a little map, wrinkled it and soiled it on the floor, then gave it to the pirate. "Tell her," said Owen as he called for a taxi, "that it is only a copy of your original, which is all worn out." The nearer they approached to the house the more talkative became the "pirate." He demanded to know more details of what was to be done, and finally assumed an air of authority. "You say that rich girl is crazy to see something worth writin' about? Now, I know something better than pirates and buried treasure," shouted the pirate confidently. "Yes, no doubt," Owen replied soothingly and with some alarm at the man's bravado. "But it's pirates she is interested in just now." "Never mind, I say I know something better," insisted the pirate. "If she will go and do what I'm goin' ter tell yer she'll sure see something like she never dreamed of. Now listen to me sharp!" It was an extraordinary proposition the "pirate" made. Owen laughed a gentle discouragement and shook his head, but Hicks fixed his eyes keenly on the man and was evidently turning the suggestion over in his mind. Owen's key admitted the three to the front hall without ringing, but a maid happened to cross the hall and caught sight of Boyd. With a scream and a flutter she retreated. Owen seated his two confederates in the hall and went in search of Pauline. Owen found Pauline alone in the library. Never did a villain propose a scheme to a beautiful girl at a more favorable moment. Half the afternoon and a little while after dinner she had been absorbing "Treasure Island," and now came Owen asking her if she would like to meet a reformed pirate and go on a thrilling and adventurous expedition. "Owen, you are a perfect angel. Bring in your pirate. I'm sorry, though, that he has reformed." Pauline shook hands with Hicks, but hardly noticed him. She had eyes only for the "pirate," who impressed her mightily. With awe and admiration she saw his scowling and squinting eye run over her and then travel about the room. Pauline approved of the "pirate," but the "pirate" did not approve of Pauline, and he almost told her so. But he met the warning eyes of his confederates and restrained himself. He had his story to tell and he would do it. After all, that was the best way to attack this girl and her fortune. "Tell us about the treasure," said Pauline eagerly. "Hush!" he shouted in a voice that made the girl jump. "I'll tell you, but, by the blood of Morgan, if one of you ever tells a living soul I'll cut his liver out," said the "pirate." Pauline gasped, and the secretary told him that it wasn't considered good manners to point with a sharp knife. But they all swore to secrecy and the "pirate" proceeded: "I was but a slip of a lad when I ran away and sailed from Liverpool in the good brig Nancy Lee with as villainous a crew as I ever seen. Where we was bound for and why is none of your business. Them that planned that voyage has cashed in their souls to their Maker and—ah, well, as I was saying, they was a villainous crew, low and vile and bloody-minded. I was the cabin boy and slept on the transoms in the captain's cabin. The weather was awful and the grub was worse. "But all went well till we reached the roarin' forties. The skipper knew how to handle sailors, you bet he did. When they came aft to kick about the grub he knocked 'em down before they said two words." Pauline gave a little exclamation of dismay at this point and the "pirate" turned to her in explanation: "You see, knockin' 'em down quick like that avoids a lot of cross words and unpleasant arguments such as makes hard feelin's on long voyages. "Yes, as I was saying', all went well until the second mate got to knockin' 'em out with his left hand, which the same was all right, too, but he was heard to pass a remark one day that he only hit landlubbers with his left hand. "The crew they was insulted, and that very night the second mate went overboard. Who done it nobody knows, leastways the captain couldn't find out. It made the old man peevish like and he got to arguin' with them sailors instead of wallopin' 'em the way he oughter done, and one day they turned on him. "It was all over in a minute. They had the old man thrown and tied. The first mate came runnin'in, firin' his pistols, but they downed him, too. I took the wheel while they decided what to do. 'Bloody Mike,' their leader, had about persuaded the men to send the captain and mate to Davy Jones's locker and the carpenter was riggin' the plank for 'em to walk when I up and puts in a word. "I pleaded for their lives and, though Mike was dead agin' the idea, they voted to let them live. The last we saw of 'em they was driftin' off in the jolly boat with a jug of water and a loaf of bread." The mariner paused and Pauline suggested delightedly: "And as soon as they had cooled down they were grateful to you and made you their leader?" "They did not," answered the "pirate." "They broached a cask of rum in the forward hold, and I overheard 'em plotting to throw me to the sharks." "How awful," said Pauline. "Yes, miss," agreed the "pirate." It was awkward and embarrassing like for a mere slip of a lad. So I up and goes into the captain's cabin and gets all the pistols and knives and cutlasses there was and brings 'em out on deck. "Pretty soon them drunken devils come a-tumblin' out of the fore hatch, picks up half a dozen capstan bars and some belyin' pins and a marlin spike or two and runs aft a-hollerin' and yellin'. I gives 'em one warnin' and then fires." The "pirate" stopped, coughed and looked around. "Oh, please go on," begged Pauline. "Yes, miss," replied the sailor, "but this talking affects my throat. Could you possibly—?" "Why, certainly," interrupted Owen, "I'll get you a drink." After the sailor had swallowed the biggest drink ever poured out in that house he continued: "Yes, that was as neat a fight as I ever was in. There was some twenty of 'em all told." "And what happened then?" demanded Pauline. "Well, Miss, it come on to blow, and there was the old ship staggerin' along under full sail. It was all I could do to keep the old hulk from foundering', at that, but I stuck to the wheel day after day and night after night. To keep from freezin' I had to drink a lot of grog. Oh, a powerful lot of grog. So much grog that I've been dependent on it ever since—and I'll take a little now, if it's agreeable." It wasn't exactly agreeable, but he got it and continued. "Finally we fetched up, ker-smack, on the rocks of a desert island. All the boats had been smashed and carried away by the storm, so I had to build a raft. The first two loads was all provisions, and then I took the treasure ashore—" "What treasure?" asked Pauline. "Oh, bless your heart, didn't I tell you about the treasure?" "No," said Hicks, with a scowl, "and that's the part we want to hear about." "Oh, money ain't everything," rebuked the "pirate" in a lordly manner. "There was a matter of a million dollars or so in good British gold, and what it was on the 'Nancy Lee' for is nobody's business. I took it all ashore, an' buried it on the island. Here's a copy of the chart I made, and you three is the first to lay human eyes on it." While Pauline examined reverently the dingy bit of paper the "pirate" concluded his yarn. "After I'd buried the last f it, I rigged a mast on the raft and fetched up on one of the Bahamas." "And you have never been back to get the gold?" queried Pauline. "No, miss; though I've started many's the time. But a poor seafarin' man like me finds it hard to fit out a proper expedition. If you fancy the notion and want to go along with me and pay all the expenses I'll divvy up half and half with you. What do you say?" Pauline looked at Owen and Hicks, who nodded approvingly. She had no great faith in finding any gold. Old Mr. Marvin had said that treasure bunts rarely produce any results. But he had also remarked that they were very thrilling, and here, surely, was adventure well worth a little time and money. Pauline agreed, and the "pirate" was in the midst of imposing a blood-curdling oath of secrecy when Harry demanded admittance. Nobody, least of all the sailor, would tell him what was in the wind, except that they were going off on a trip of adventure. The young man disapproved of both Hicks and the "pirate," and the latter showed his dislike of Harry. It was with regret that the man of the sea recollected Owen's stipulation that Harry must on no account be allowed to go with the party. Nothing would have pleased the "pirate" better than to have got these two happy and innocent representatives of "ill-gotten gains" alone with him on the high seas. Pauline, too, wished to have Harry who was frowning and suspiciously demanding information. But she had sworn the oath of a buccaneer, and far be it from her to break faith with the confiding freebooter. So, once more Harry was kept out of Pauline's councils. He was a little provoked at her this time, for her willfulness seemed almost perverse after the lesson she should have learned from the aeroplane wreck. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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