The Duel.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIX, Issue 17, 23 April 1913, Page 51

The Duel.

By

EARL DERR BIGGERS.

THE skipper of the John Henry stood on the deek and gazed wonderingly at the distant quay, where he beheld the newly-hired member of his crew indulging in unusual and picturesque contortions. “Wots the matter with ’im/’ he inquired of the cook, "why don’t ’e come on board? M e sails in ’arf an hour.” “’E’e tryin’ to make known ’is awful state,” returned the cook, solemnly. “Joe started ashore to fetch ’im. but ’e ’ollered not to come a-near 'ini. ’E sez ’ow ’e’s been exposed to the smallpox.” “Why, that’s all right,” said the captain, heartily; “tell ’im not to let that worry ’im. I’m not one to ’old anythink like that ag’in a man.”

There was an eloquent pause. “The smallpox, 1 said,” ventured the cook.

“\\ ell. 1 m not deef—l *eard you,” responded the skipper, testily, “wot of it? T*- ain t likely to get it, an’ if ’e does, ’oo’s afraid? I’ve ’ad it, an’ so ’as the mate. Joe, row in an’ fetch ’im at once.” Another pause ensued, during which the cook shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. His plans for spending that evening with a lady friend in Plymouth had been wrecked by the captain’s decision to leave a day early, and in the new hand which the master of the John Henry had engaged there he saw his only salvation. By a vivid recital of the cruelties practised by the skipper, together with a liberal purchase

of beer, he had induced the new recruit to play false, seeing in the delay which the search for another seaman would occasion his chance for an evening of festivity. But the frivolous manner in which his smallpox story was being received took him unprepared. “’Wot ails you. Joe?” the captain bellowed. “’Ave you quit takin’ orders from me?” Joe. cleared his throat, but it was the cook who spoke. “We’re pore men.” he said, “but there ain’t no law to make us risk our lives for nothink. If that man comes aboard the John Henry, we’ll ’ave to go.” “Wot nonsense,” the skipper sneered, “you ’ave to die o’ somethink, an’ why Hot the smallpox? Wot’s a few sailormen, more or less? Why, they’s as plenty as flies.” “Of all the ’ard-’earted talk,” murmured the cook. “I ’ad some trouble gittin’ this feller,” went on the captain, savagely, "an’ I ain’t goin’ to lose ’im now—no, not if ’e’s |>een exposed to a ’ole dictionary o’ diseases. To find another like ’im would take a. day or more, an’ 1 ’aren't even a minute to spare.” “It’s unfort’nit an’ un’appy,” put in the cook; “it’s come at a very laid time, an’, it’s ’ard on all o’ us. But it ean’t be ’elped. It’s Providence, that’s wot it fa”

“Providence nothink,” rejoined the skipper, who was no novice in dealing with such situations. “Joe, if you prefers a trial fer mutiny to obeyin' my orders, I’ll go ashore fer the new ’and myself.”

He started for the ship's boat, but the cook planted himself in his path. “I'm sorry, sir,” he said, “but if that feller comes aboard, me an’ the other lads will ’ave to leave. It ain't human to arek us to stay.” One glance at the faces of the crew told the skipper he need expect no sympathy there. “Well,” he said shortly, “mebbe you're right. Mebbe your lives are worth somethink, though it’s foolish of you never to prove it to me.” He walked to the rail and addressed the smallpox victim, who was sitting dejectedly on the edge of the pier. “Go away, pore feller,” he shouted, “go away to sonfe quiet spot an’ die.” Then he turned to the crew, watch in hand. “We sails in ten minutes,” he remarked.

This announcement came as a distinct shock, especially to the cook, who heard it at a time of inward rejoicing over his apparent victory. “ ’Ow about the new ’and?” he inquired timidly. “ It's unfort’nit an’ un’appy,” the captain returned, “ but as I said before, I ’aven't time now to look up a new man. We’ll ’ave to sail without. It’s come at a very bad time, an’ it’s ’aid on all of us. But it ean’t be ’elped. It’s Providence, that’s wot it is. “ Yes, it'll be pretty ’ai d on us all, I guess,” he went on, after a pause, “ cause the boy’ll ’ave to uo the cookin’, an’ ’is repertory ain’t large. Soup an’ coffee’s the extent o’ Johnny’s pore ability, an’ sometimes it's ’ard to tell which 'e means fer which.” “An’ why will Johnny ’ave to do the cookin'?” inquired the cook haughtily, but with no little anxiety in his tone.

" Why,” answered the skipper sweetly, “ because you're goin’ to take the place of the pore feller wot was exposed to the smallpox. You can be rehdy to take your turn at the wheel to-night along with the rest.” r The eqok drew himself up loftily.

“ I’ll take no turn at no wheel,” he announced, in a dignified tone, “ I’ll ’ave you know, sir. as ’ow I shipped with

this vessel as cook, an’ as ’ow I intend to stay cook to the end o’ this v’y’ge. I ain’t ben no common sailor before, an’ I ain't goin’ tozbegin now.”

“You'll do as I say, my’ lad,” returned the captain warmly; " dooty is dooty, an’ when I tell you to do anythink, I ain't goin’ to 'ave any back talk. You'll do your turn at the wheel, or you’ll do twelve months fer mutiny.” “Not bein’ used to the work o’ a ordinary A. 8.,” said the cook, with equal warmth, “ ’ow do you expect me to keep awake ? I arsks you that.” “ ’Tain't none o’ my business ’ow you do it,” was the skipper’s short reply, “only you gutter to do it, that's all.” And he walked away’.

A sulky crew sailed the John Henry out of Plymouth harbour. During the remainder of that day the eook went about with an ugly look on his face. He avoided friendly conversation. Speculation as to his future course ran high, but nothing could be discovered, for when Joe Martin daringly inquired what his plan of action might be, he answered sharply : “Do my dooty, an’ keep my mouth shet, the same as you ought to be doin’.” That night, a little past midnight, the entire ship, from cabin to forecastle, was aroused by a sharp, piercing whistle. The men leaped from their bunks and started up the companionway’. At the top they met the captain and mate, clad in the garments of sleep, and forming with them a cautious procession, moved noiselessly forward. In a moment they came in sight of the cook, standing peacefully at the wheel, and whistling “God Save the King” in tones calculated to wake the dead resting in the church-yards of London. “Wot’s the meanin’ o’ this, cook?” inquired the skipper, very red in the face. “ Wot’s the meanin’ o’ wot, air,” asked the eook, innocently.

“Wot’s your idee in Wakin’ up the ’ole ship in the middle o’, the night by such a ungodly noise?” said the captain, even redder.

"I'm sorry if I 'ave disturbed you, cap’n,” said the eook, calmly, “ but bein’ new at This kind o’ work, I ’ave a 'ard time ’oldin’ my eyes open. An’ so I whistles. It keeps me awake.” “ I ’ave uo doubt it does,” said the. skipper, sarcastically, and then starting in enthusiastically, he called the cook all the names he knew. The list exhausted, he tried his hand at invention, with no little success. Finished at last, he turned sheepishly to the crew, for it Was plain, as the eook, intimated, that hard names were not the equivalent of sticks and stones. At a loss for a. plan of further action, he ordered all below in a terrible voice. No one slept that night during the cook's watch. What was worse, the next night the same piercing whistle roused crew and officers, and the recording angel s oath account must have been in a sad muddle by morning. For some time the unaccustomed watcher’s nightly concerts continued. The captain was roaring riiad, and the crew, while naturally delighted to see their'chief getting the worst of something had begun to regret the eost at which this pleasure was bought. It was at this point that old Daniel, master of plots and plans, took the case in hand. For several hours he sat thinking in a corner of the forecastle, repelling in surly tones the advances of the interested and anxious. At length he announced to the waiting ones the perfection of his scheme, and carried it to the skipper for approval. “Anythink,” said that harassed gentleman, sourly’, " anythink at all jest so it shets ’im up.” Early- that evening the entire crew, together with the eook, sat smoking in the forecastle, when Daniel suddenly arose and, going over to his chest, took out an old newspaper. “I was jest thinkin',” he soliloquised, softly, “ as ’ow I fergot to look over that paper wot I bought when I was in London.” And sitting close • to the smoky lam’p. he began to read. “Wot’s the news?” the others inquired, but with little show of interest. Five year?*' before Daniel had bought that paper and all save the eook had read the <l.tie beneath the name. “Nothin' much,” responded Daniel, in an offhand manner, “nothin’ bqt a few murders an' 'angin's an’ the like.*’ Then (suddenly he s.it up very straight, an excited look on his face. "Wot's this?” lie said. so loudly they all started. “'Gw lucky.” he went on, _“’ow very lucky fer me to come acroet this at such a time." “Wot is it? Read it,” they chorused, and Daniel began in a roaring voice: “Wot is a very strange ease ’as’ appened in the St. George horwe.pittle. A night policeman named John Davis ’as been took there sufferin’ great pain from insanity. Them wot lives on ’is beat say as 'ow ’<■ was accustomed to whistle a wen-known toone all durin’ 'the night, an’ when them us couldn't sleep hollered at ’ini, ’e only swore fer answer. ’ln punishment fer this cruelty ’as come. The doctors give out an ’ow whistlin’ the same toone fer so long ’as turned

’is brain. ’E can’t never recover. U leaves one wife and eight children.” Here Daniel glared fiercely at the eook. "’Well,” said that gentleman uneasily, “it seems to me as 'ow that's very pord langwidge fer a newspaper.” Daniel turned yellow, which was his way of blushing.

“It’s not a very good newspaper,” he eaid, “an’ besides, 1 hrd to change the langwidge a bit so as to be understood by 'them wot’s not well eddieated.” “Indeed,” returned the eook, shortly, “will ye be so kind as to ’and me tho paper, may I arek?”

Reading was not one of the cook’s accomplishments, and knowing -this, Daniel willingly handed over the sheet. For some moments the eook studied it, all the time holding it upside down, aS Daniel afterwards explained to the delighted crew. Then he thoughtfully laid it down.

“Indeed,” he said again, and departed. (When the cook had gone to the gallev, they all praised Daniel until he turned yellow again.

“’Tain’t nothin’, mates,” he modestly, assured them, “but I think you'll find that cook is seared out o’ ’is cruel ’abiu, I arsked ’im this arternoon why ’e allua stuck to the same toone. an’ ’e said didn’t know no other. In that case, J think as ’ow we’ll get our rest to-night.” But in spite of Daniel's prediction, thcj cook did not see tit to discontinue h» concerts that night. When the crew met} him on deek the next day they spoke td him sadly concerning it. “Wot are you thinkiu’ of. my lad';” Daniel inquired. “’Ave you fergot your missis an’ the eight little ones? Turn baek, we begs you, before it is too late.” “Mebbe the insanity ’as already got a ’old of ’im an’ ’e ean’t turn back,” said Bill, pityingly. “Insanity is a awful thing. I knowed a man onct ’oo ’ad it; ’e thought ’e was a animal o’ somd kind an’ used to roar fearful.” "The only man I knowed ’oo ’ad it thought ’<■ was the Prince o’ Wales,” put in Joe Martin, “an’ ’e was alius mistakin’ the fo’c’s'le fer the throne room!” "Two insane men 'as come to my notice,” said the mate, who was standing near by with the skipper; “one mistook himself for a hangel, an' the other kept insistin’ the people around ’im was articles o’ food, an’ tried to chew ’em.” “Insanity is a terrible thing,” said the captain, sorrowfully. "After the warnin’ you ’ave ’ad, cook. I am surprised at you. Turn back, my lad, an’ save yourself from such a awful fate.” . But the eook was deaf to all entreaties. That night, instead of being roused by the usual whistle, the crew wero awakened by a roar that seemed tot shake the entire ship. They rushed Up the companionway to the deek, and there! beheld the captain and mate backing slowly away from the cook, who had a frightened look on his face. - ' “I’m the British lion, that's wot I am,” he shouted, stopping between each word for a roar, “I’m a lion an’ I'm goin’ to

eat you, cap’ll. It’ll be a tough meal, but i think as ’ow I can stand it.” “Wot’s that?" said the skipper, roaring in his turn. ‘Tin a hangel,” continued the cook, suddenly very quiet, ‘‘see my wings. I’m goln’ to fly.” “If you’re a hangel, all I can say is you’re out o’ plaee on this vessel,” said the captain. * “I ain't no hangel,” cook went on, haughtily, “I’m the Prince o’ Wales ” ‘ Ain’t you overdoin’ it a bit, my lad?” put in the mate, but the cook made a leap for him. “You’re the King." he shouted, “an’ I’m goin’ to kill you so as I can ’ave the throne.” ‘•Be careful,” said the skipper, “be careful there!” ‘Look out. old ’am sandwich,” shrieked the cook, turning un him, ‘ if you was a piece o’ pie. I’d cat you.” With that lie fastened himself on the mate. “You’re buttered ’ardtack,” lie cried, “an’ it's my meal time.” The captain pulled him off. ‘Wot’s the meanin’ o’ this nonsense?” he asked, angrily. “Go an’ take your place at the vheel.” ‘'Wot,” shouted eook. “d’ye want a livin’ maniac steerin' this ship? X’m

insane, that’s wot I atn. Whistlin' one tooue ‘as turned my brains.” “You’re a liar," roared the skipper. ,’i’Old on.” said the cook, flaring up, “I ain't no fool, an’ I guess I know when I'm insane.” as sane a mind as wot I ’ave,” pajd the captain. Ajlebbe,” returned the madman, sarcastically, “mebbe. But that ain't sayin’ much.” The skipper’s face changed, and the crew waited for him to knock the cook down. But he suddenly controlled him“We warned you tliat this would ’appen,” he said sadly, “but you wouldn’t ’eed us.” ‘Tm a hangel,” said cook. “George, went on the captain, turning tiji the mate, “I’m afraid we'll ’ave to put dlie pore creature in irons till the j?nd o’ the v'y’ge, when we can ’and ’im over to a horsepittie to experiment on. j think {lie hold is the safest place to keep ’lm.” rile cook turned pale. “I'm a lion,” he said softly, “an’ n jhangel. I’m kinder dazed like. Where «m I?” And then he added, a bit too hastily, “There, I feel much better.” “No, you don't, pore lad,” said the caplain, pityingly, “you only think you do. Them wot’s insane never knows ’i>w they feel.” “ I ain't insane—any more,” said the cook. “ You think you ain’t,” replied the skipper, helping the mate to lift the hatch over the hold, “them wot’s insane nilas say they ain’t. Chuck *im down, mate. Tore un’appy wretch! Pore feller ! An' see that the hatch is well fastened, George.”

The next morning the skipper opened {he hutch a few inches and let down a Ibotile of water and some hardtack into the hold. W

“Good mornin’, pore lunatic,” he said.

“Is this all I gets?” inquired the cook, anxiously.

“ That's all,” said the captain. “ I read in a book that it’s best not to overfeed insane people, an’ I’m not one to do anythink wot’s w.rong.”

Then he closed the hatch to shut off the awful noise coming up from below. “Wot if he should mistake the ship fer a tupenny bun, an’ eat it ? ” said the mate, smiling.

“Or wot if he should think the sea was a ’ot chocolate, an’ drink it ? ” said the skipper, smiling back. For two days the captain kept the cook in the hold, letting down his bread and water at each meal-time. At the end of the second day he came and took off the hateh.

“An’ ’ow is the insane man to-night?” he inquired pleasantly.

“ Much better, thankee," came a meek voice from below. “Wot does ’e feel like now,” asked the captain, “ a lion, a hangel, or the Prince o’ Wales ? ”

“’E feels like ’imself again,” came an even meeker voice.

“ That’s good,” said the skipper. “ an’ does ’e feel as though ’e would like to take a bite out o’ ‘is cap’n ? ’’ “ No, sir, the very sight o’ ’is cap’n makes ’im sick.”

“ Wot ? ” roared the skipper. “ Viewed as provisions, I mean, o’ course,” said the cook, very hastily.

“Very well,” said the skipper, “ ’e may come on deck.”