“Old Jerry Smith—a man who has spent all his life out there. He’s going to sail with us. Now hush up for a minute, both of you. From Honolulu we go direct to the Malay coast, cutting in through the Philippines without stopping. On the way back we can do all the visiting we want to.
“There’s the plan, boys. We’d like to have you go along, Mart, to take care of our wireless. Salary, forty a month and all found. Of course you’d mess with us, at the officers’ mess, and you boys could have great old times. How about it? I believe you are free to go, Mart?”
“Plenty free, sir,” nodded Mart. “I’ve had no one to worry over me since mother died, two years ago. Only—it’s an awful big thing for a fellow to make up his mind to, right off the bat like this. These here Malay States—aren’t they pretty wild and woolly! I’ve got a notion that’s where the pirates come from—”
The financier broke into a laugh.
“Not today, Judson! Why, in Tringanu they make some of the best steel in the world—the natives, I mean. That’s where those curly krisses and Malay daggers come from. But the piracy is all over. Tringanu isn’t exactly civilized, I’ll admit, but it’s under British protection, like all the rest of the Malay States.
“This place where we’re going, Kuala Besut, is inside these islands here, and Jerry Smith says that we can go right up the river in the yacht. Also, he says, it will be easy to take trips into the jungle with some of the native chiefs, and bag a tiger or so.”
“Who’s this Jerry Smith?” asked Mart.
“He’s an old-timer—been beating around the Pacific most of his life. They say he used to be a pirate and blackbirder and that he can tell strange yarns if he will—but that’s all talk. He’s just a quiet, white-haired old man. I’ve found from other sources that there’ll be no trouble getting a concession on the place—if there’s any gold there. Now that’s all I know about the thing. It’s up to you, Mart!”
“Well,” grinned the gray-eyed boy, glancing at his friend, “you needn’t worry about me. If you really mean it, I’d—I’d pay you to take me along, sir!”
“Not much,” laughed the captain. “It’s the other way around, Mart. Well, we sail Monday morning. Old Jerry is getting a crew for us and he’ll come aboard Sunday night with the men. You’d better quit work at the shop tonight, get our wireless in shape over tomorrow, to pass the port inspectors, and rest up Sunday. I’ll detail Bob to help you—he’s been acting as supercargo up to date.”
“Much obliged,” grunted Bob sarcastically, “How about an outfit? Will Mart have to get any clothes?”
“Not on my ship. They’ll come out of the slop-chest. Oh, you needn’t look that way, Mart,” and the financier laughed at Mart’s dismay. “Slop-chest is sailors’ slang for ship’s stores. Just fetch your ordinary clothes. Bob, you’d better get that stateroom next to yours fixed up; then you boys can be together. Now, is there anything more you fellows want to know?”
“Lots,” shot out Mart with a sigh as he rose to his feet. “I want to know so much that it makes my head ache to think of it—but I’ve got to get back and get these fixtures down to the Peniel before dark. I’ll turn up in the morning ready for work. And, say, I’m sure grateful to you, Mr.—er—Captain Hollinger! And I’ll do my best to earn my salary, you can be sure of—”
“Well, get along with you,” broke in the financier, smiling. “See you tomorrow!”
Bob walked up the wharf with his friend, and as they parted, Mart turned to him.
“By golly, Bob,” he said slowly, “I can’t believe it! Say, won’t we have one peach of a time, though? S’pose your dad will take us along after the tigers?”
“Of course he will!” agreed Holly, who had stout confidence in his father. “We’ve got more rifles and guns coming down tomorrow than you can shake a stick at. And we’ll go down in the diving suits, too—dad’s promised that already. Well, so long! See you tomorrow.”
As Mart Judson walked up the street, he trod on air. It was like a dream come true. He would be crossing the Pacific, going to foreign lands, getting the very job he had been vainly longing for—and getting paid for it all!
“I wonder if it’s really true,” he thought, staring with unseeing eyes at the scenes around him. “Blamed if it ain’t too good to betrue—tiger shooting and diving and gold mines—Oh, what’s the use! I’m dreaming!”
CHAPTER II
JERRY SMITH, QUARTERMASTER
“How’s she coming? It’s ’most noon, Mart.”
“Huh? Oh, she’s great. I can’t find anything wrong, except a little rust. I’ll take a look at that transmitting jigger and send out a flash, I guess.”
“What’s the transmitting jigger?”
“This—the oscillation transformer. It transfers the primary circuit energy, which has low potential, to the aerial circuit, where it reaches a mighty high potential at the free insulated end—”
“Hey! What d’you think I am—a walking ’cyclopaedia?” broke in Bob indignantly. “Cut out that high-flown talk with me, Mart, and get down to where I can collect on you. Going to send a message?”
“Golly, no!” returned Mart, busily, adjusting his current. “We’d have the port officers down on us in a jiffy. It’s all right to pick up messages, but to do any private monkey-work by sendin’ them is liable to get a fellow in bad. No, I’m just going to see that the sparker’s workin’ right—”
“Never mind a technical description,” broke in Bob. “Just go ahead and I’ll be satisfied to watch. But when you get through, there’s some stuff down in the cabin that you might like to look over.”
“All right,” grunted the other, pressing down his key. The blue spark leaped out for a long moment, but Mart was careful not to break it, and with a satisfied nod he threw off the current. The Seamew’s wireless, in spite of a year of disuse, was in splendid shape; like other merchant ship stations of modern type, it was almost perfect in its conveniences. The whole transmitting apparatus, from the generator to the aerial tuning inductance, was in a special silence cabinet; this not only kept the noise of the spark and generator down, but shut off all high-tension apparatus from the operator. Mart explained this at some length to his chum.
“It’s strictly fool-proof, so I’ll give you some lessons when we get out in the ocean,” he grinned. “We can send messages all we please there, but not in port.”
“Well, you come along down to the cabin,” returned Bob ungraciously. He had no knowledge of things mechanical, and no liking for them. His tastes ran to athletics, and by careful cultivation of his body he had made himself the physical equal, or nearly so, of Mart Judson, whose strength and alertness were entirely natural.
Leaving the wireless house, which was on the upper bridge deck just abaft the chart house and signal locker, the two boys slid down the ladders to the lower deck. Cases of provisions and supplies were being slung down the fore hold by the steam winch, and except for the two mates and a couple of wharf hands, no one was in sight. The engine-room crew was aboard, together with the Chinese steward, but the crew of a dozen men would not come aboard until the next night.
Indeed, the principal use for a crew aboard the Seamew was to keep the brasswork polished and the decks holystoned, it seemed to Mart. Everything was done by steam-power; while the wheel-house had a helm, the steam steering-gear was used entirely, the anchor was worked by steam, and the boats and launch carried on the bridge deck could be swung out by the same power.
“What’s waiting for us?” queried Mart as they turned to the after companionway leading to the cabins.
“You come along and see,” returned Bob Hollinger mysteriously. “Dad’s gone uptown, so we got the craft to ourselves right now.”
Mart followed his friend down into the cabin, then stopped suddenly and caught his breath. A big mahogany chest stood open at one side, and on the table was laid out an astonishing array of hunting supplies. There were guns of every conceivable size and shape, it seemed to him. He picked up the
first to hand and examined it, while Bob excitedly explained.
“That’s a Mannlicher-Schoener. It’s dad’s favorite for big game, Mart.”
“Huh!” exclaimed Mart critically. “She ain’t much bigger’n the old twenty-two I used to have, Holly. I’ll eat all the big game your dad ever shoots with that gun!”
“Don’t you believe it! That’s the Austrian army gun—she’s a two-fifty-six caliber cordite, hasn’t any kick to speak of, and they use it on elephants in Africa. Why, she’ll kill at a mile, Mart!”
“Mebbe,” and Mart doubtfully laid the weapon down. “You’ll have to show me first, though. Whew! this looks like a regular hardware shop! That’s a beaut of a shotgun.”
While it hardly seemed possible that the Austrian gun could be all Bob said, Mart knew that his chum was well posted. However, there were guns of all sizes and kinds, from target rifles to heavy twenty-gauge Parker shotguns, as well as four ugly-looking automatic pistols. Besides these there were half a dozen long hunting-knives, bandoliers, belts, and other articles of equipment.
“Dad sent down his whole outfit,” explained Bob gleefully. “We’re likely to get a chance for some fine shooting on the voyage. But say! Come in here a minute! This’ll make you sit up, sure!”
He hastily led his chum into the smoking-room beyond. A large packing-case stood on the floor, and on the table was a small but complete moving-picture machine, at sight of which Mart gave a yell of delight.
“By golly!” he cried, examining it. “It’s one o’ those English things, Holly—I was reading about it last week! You take ’em around with you and—why, she’s a wonder! No bigger’n a camera, either!”
In fact, the whole machine was no larger than a good-sized camera, and Mart decided on the spot that he would be moving-picture operator. It was Captain Hollinger’s intention to take pictures of Kuala Besut, of his prospective gold-concession, of the whole vicinity, and of his tiger hunts if possible, and the two boys were wild over the prospect. Suddenly Mart turned as a quiet voice broke in from behind.
“Hm—hm—beg pardon, gentlemen!”
A stoop-shouldered, gentle-faced old man stood in the doorway, cap in hand. He had very watery blue eyes, his expression was mild in the extreme, and long white hair fell on his shoulders; but for his tanned, leathery skin, Mart would have taken him for an old clerk in a bank.
“Yes?” inquired Bob. “You wanted someone here?”
“Why, I was looking for the cap’n,” said the old man. His voice was soft, but carried far. “My name’s Smith, Jerry Smith, quartermaster.”
“Oh, you’re the Jerry Smith that’s to sail with us!” Bob spoke in no little astonishment, for the old man looked anything but a tarry sailor. “Why, dad’s gone uptown for the afternoon, Mr. Smith. I’m Bob Hollinger, and this is Mart Judson, who goes with us.”
“Pleased, gentlemen,” and the other jerked his head slightly, gazing around with mild interest. “That’s a sight o’ hardware, here in the main cabin. My stars! Is the cap’n going to shoot all those weapons, young sir?”
“Well, he hopes to,” grinned Mart easily, shoving back the mop of black hair from his brow. “Going to take moving pictures, too. I’m the wireless operator.”
“Eh?” Jerry Smith looked astonished. “Why, young sir, that is surprising! I did not know we—we were going to have a wireless operator!” His watery eyes blinked a little, and his soft voice dropped to a deeper tone. “Well, well! And I was just about your age, I imagine, when I first put to sea!”
Mart hoped for a moment that the old man was going to spin a yarn, but instead he only heaved a sigh and mopped at his nose with a huge bandanna.
“Well,” he said to Bob, “I’m sorry to miss your father, young sir. And would you please to tell him that the crew’ll come aboard tomorrow night, and that I’ll be aboard afore then with the papers? I’ll have to sign on as quartermaster, you know, and the cap’n—”
“Eh?” Bob struck in with a frown. “Why, you’re going as a guest, Mr. Smith! Dad doesn’t want you to sign on at all.”
“Just Jerry, if you please!” the old man smiled quietly. “Jerry is my handle, young sirs, just Jerry. About signing on, now. I’ve never put to sea yet, young sirs, but what I’ve been entered shipshape and Bristol fashion, and I’m not going to start wrong at this time o’ life. I want to be on the ship’s articles as quartermaster, that’s all—that’s all. I got my discharges all proper, and if we should lose an officer, I’ve got a first officer’s ticket. I don’t want any wages, young sirs, but I want to be signed on all shipshape. It’ll make me feel a sight better. You’ll tell the cap’n that?”
“Why, sure!” returned Bob heartily. “And I’m glad to meet you, Jerry. You’d better keep in mind that I’m Bob, or Holly—either one hits the right spot—and I don’t like that ‘young sir’ business.”
“Nor me,” put in the gray-eyed boy, stepping forward with his hand out. “I’m plain Mart, without any Mister either, Jerry, and I’m glad to meet up with you.”
The three shook hands. Mart noted that old Jerry had a very strong chin and a tight-lipped mouth, for all his gentle appearance, and his hands were very gnarled and knotted. His dress was old and weatherstained, but had nothing of the sailor in it. Mart had seen enough of sailors along the waterfront, however, to know that clothes do not count in such cases.
With a final duck of his head, Jerry Smith turned and shuffled away.
“Well, what d’you think o’ that!” Bob stared at his chum as the stoop-shouldered figure vanished up the companion. “Pirate! Say, do you reckon he ever saw a pirate ship? I guess dad has things twisted about him, eh?”
“I’m not so sure,” returned Mart slowly, thinking of that firm chin and knotted hand. “I’m not so sure, Holly. You can’t go by what you read in books, always. Sure, I know he’s a nice old fellow, but he’s a queer fish just the same. And as for bein’ a pirate, there’s that man Morris, who’s workin’ on the Tribune now as city editor. He’s as quiet and nice as you ever see ’em, but they say he’s been all kinds of things. That shows you, Holly, that you can’t go by looks.”
“Anyhow, I guess he’s reformed by now,” stated Bob decisively. “And pirating is out of date these days. He’s only an interesting character, as the books say.”
“He sure is,” agreed Mart promptly. “Say, Holly, we’re going to have a whopper of a time in the next month or so, ain’t we?”
Bob grinned happily. “You’re dead right, old boy! Say, it’s noon—”
“By golly, that’s right! When do we eat? I’m some empty.”
“Right now. Ah Sing has the grub ready, I guess. Hike along, youpirate!”
And Mart hiked with a wide grin.
CHAPTER III
OFF FOR TRINGANU
It was Sunday afternoon. Joe Swanson and the second mate, “Liverpool” Peters, had departed that morning to enjoy their last few hours on shore. Captain Hollinger, Mart, and Bob were alone on board, save for the steward, and the three were sitting around a big pitcher of lemonade under the after-deck awnings. The financier-yachtsman was enthusiastically outlining his plans for sport during his trip.
“We’re going to have a great time, boys,” he exclaimed heartily, “I’ve got everything on board you can think of, from tackle for sharks to dynamite.”
“Huh? Dynamite?” asked Mart quickly. “What’s that for, Cap’n?”
“I don’t know,” returned the captain coolly. The two boys stared.
“What—you don’t know?” asked Bob in surprise. His father laughed.
“No. I put it aboard at the suggestion of old Jerry Smith. He said we might have need for it during the diving operations, and I simply took his advice. He’s pretty well posted on everything out in that section of the world, and promises me some exciting sport shooting tigers.”
“I thought tigers were found only in India,” put in Mart, puzzled. “That’s where they usually shoot ’em, isn’t it?”
“No,” said the captain, leaning back and lighting his cigar. “No, Mart, you’re off there. You’ll find tigers all through the Malay States and up into China proper—I believe they’ve even been found in parts of Japan. We’re going to have some great shooting, boys! And while I’m off with you in the jungle, or hills—for I’m not sure which we’ll find—old Jerry can be managing the diving and dredging operations at the other end without bothering me till the work’s ready for inspection.”
“What’s Jerry gettin’ out o’ this?” queried Mart thoughtfully.
“Oh, I’m to allow him one-third of the stock. Our consul at Singapore is already getting us the concession, and Jerry has letters from the Sultan of Tringanu to all the native chiefs.”
“What’re they like, dad?” Bob sat up. “The letters, I mean.”
“They’re written in Arabic,” laughed his father. “There are a good many Arabs out in that part of the world, and I suppose Arabic is the usual written language; or rather, the Malays use the Arabic characters. They’re all Mohammedans, anyway.”
“Can’t we take a squint at those diving outfits?” Mart looked out at the sparkling waters of the bay, and sighed. “Oh, I’d give ’most anything to go down and really get underneath the ocean! Where are the outfits, Cap’n?”
“Boxed up in the hold, Judson. There’s no chance of our using them till after we get to Tringanu. Swanson knows a good deal about diving, and Jerry Smith promised to pick up a couple of men who were used to it, so we’ll be all right there.”
“Oh!” Mart suddenly sat up and squared around in his seat. “Am I under Swanson’s orders, Cap’n?”
“Nominally, yes, as a member of the crew. But in actual fact, no. Why?”
The boy’s face was troubled, and he hesitated an instant.
“Nothing much,” he said at last, his gray eyes suddenly hard and cold. “Only, I had an argument with Swanson Friday, and by somethin’ he said yesterday I wondered if I was under him.”
“I guess not!” cried Bob indignantly. “You’re an officer, and you’re under no one but the captain—who is dad.”
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 248