And a Little Child Shall Lead Them

This is the first story from Verrill that I have found that mentions Nova Scotia where we live.

Verrill's 'Sea Stories' were published in the 1920s, when Verrill lived in The Endicott Hotel in NYC, a notorious home to mobsters. The hotel became a upscale condominium in the 1990s.

And a Little Child Shall Lead Them

By A. Hyatt Verrill

From Sea Stories Magazine, 1923 April. Digital capture by Philip Bolton Jr., Betty Paulos and Doug Frizzle 2009, December.

The motives that prompt sailormen to engage in the illegal business of smuggling forbidden liquors into the United States are the same as the motives for all other smuggling. Men in all ages have been tempted by easily-attained riches to break the customs laws and sumptuary laws, and, it must be said, have been hindered little by conscience, though they might strictly and willingly follow the laws dealing with other crimes—the crimes specifically named in the Decalogue. One is inclined to think that all possible emotions and situations in smuggling have been written about in the centuries that writers have been dealing with the subject. Yet here is a story with a new situation. It seems unlike any “rum-running” story we have ever read.

“So that’s the graft, eh?” rumbled Captain Carmichael as he straightened up in his chair and gazed from under bushy brows at the overdressed, florid-faced man across the little table. “Want me to run a cargo of booze and risk my ship and the calaboose or a fine for me and me men for five thousand while you set back safe and sound and pocket the profits. No, mister, nothing doing.”

“Got cold feet or too law-abiding?” sneered the other.

Carmichael’s eyes flashed, his lips set in a hard line and one huge fist clenched as he half rose. Then he settled back. “Cold feet, hell!” he burst out. “No one never said Jerry Carmichael got cold feet yet without being derned sorry he spoke; and as for the law—any fool law like this dry business was made to be broke. No, mister, game ain’t worth the candle, that’s all.”

“Maybe we might sweeten the kitty a bit if that’s all,” suggested the other man. “Would ten grand tempt you?”

For a space the bull-necked, deep-chested seaman studied his companion thoughtfully. Then: “Say,” he ejaculated, “you fellows make me tired. You think you’re some pumpkins, but you don’t know no more about running in contraband than a suckling babe. You’re a bunch of pikers and dumb fools besides.

“You send a schooner down to load hootch in the Bahamas and you know blamed well Nassau’s full of spies and every keg and case you put aboard’s checked off, and then the craft sails north with faked papers and sneaks up the coast and lays to twelve or fifteen mile off shore, just advertising she’s crooked, and then a towboat or a launch goes off making enough racket to wake old Davy Jones and you get chased and catched or have a gun fight or maybe land a few hundred cases and clean up a few thousand and call it business.

“No, mister, my motter’s ‘a thing what’s worth doing at all’s worth doing well’ and you might’s well die for a sheep as a lamb. The fine ain’t no bigger if you bring in a thousand cases than if you bring in one, and big deals are what pays.”

The other snorted. “If you’re such a wise guy why don’t you do it?” he demanded. “Reckon from what I’ve heard of you you’ve had some experience running contraband before now. It would pay you a lot better than running that old schooner of yours with cargoes of lumber and coal.”

“Why don’t I!” retorted the skipper. “’Cause I ain’t got capital to swing it. Booze costs money—even where it’s made—but, by glory, if I had the backing I could bring in the Ella May full to the hatches and land it in broad daylight on a New York dock with the customs watching of me!”

The florid-faced man shot a keen, searching glance at the rugged, heavy-jawed captain and intense interest showed in every feature. “Look here,” he exclaimed, lowering his voice and casting a swift, furtive glance about the dingy water-front café. “Maybe we can do business after all, cap. Tell me the lay and if it listens good the money’s easy.”

Carmichael laughed derisively. “Think I was born yesterday, eh?” he jeered. Then, before the other could reply, he continued: “Guess ‘twon’t do no harm though. You couldn’t do it without me and”—he leaned forward and his teeth snapped together—“if you try any monkey business with Jerry Carmichael you’ll wish to the Lord you was safe in jail.”

For the next ten minutes the seaman spoke earnestly in hoarse whispers, and as he talked the other’s eyes sparkled, a knowing grin spread over his coarse features and he nodded approvingly from time to time.

“Damned if I don’t think you can put it over!” he cried enthusiastically as Carmichael finished. “But it’s going to cost a pile of money.”

“’Course ‘tis,” agreed the captain. “Didn’t I tell you that’s why I couldn’t swing it—and needs organization, too. You’ve got both and I’ve got the ship and the know how. Make it a fifty-fifty deal and I’ll put it through and no risk to you, either. All you got to do is hire a office like I said; hang out your sign—West Indian Trading Company, or any such name—‘tend to the cables and papers and dig up the cash. Leave the rest to me.”

For a time the other remained silent, thinking deeply, going over the captain’s plan in detail in his mind, trying to discover some fault, some flaw, some remote contingency that might lead to discovery and disaster. But he could find none. The scheme was so open, so frank, that he could see no possible cause for suspicion and, if it worked—as he felt it must—it would mean a fortune and the biggest cargo of liquor ever smuggled into the United States. And there was no reason why it should not be repeated indefinitely.

The possibilities were staggering. He and his friends would literally be the kings of the bootleggers and could force out all competition. But why had no one ever thought of it before? There were plenty of unprincipled ship masters and owners fully as smart and as scheming as the Nova Scotia man before him, and this thought made him cautious.

“Why hasn’t some one else tried it?” he demanded.

“Hell, how do you know they ain’t?” retorted the captain. “But there ain’t none of them done it big or you’d ‘a’ heard of it, I guess. Maybe they’ve thought of it but didn’t have the cash, like as I didn’t, and then again, maybe they ain’t. Why don’t you ask why some one didn’t think of steamboats aside from Fulton, or half a dozen fellows think of electric lights? Mister, some one’s got to be the first to think up something new.”

“H’m, that’s so,” admitted the other, “and the first one’s the guy that makes the cleanup. Sure about that place where you can transship?”

“Do you think I’m crazy or just drunk?” snorted the other. “Course I’m sure. Not sighted once a century by no ships. Why it ain’t even down on most maps.”

“Well, I can’t see any chance for a slip,” admitted the florid-faced man at last. “How long will it take to get it here?”

Carmichael pondered, wrinkled his heavy brows and drew a stubby pencil and a crumpled paper from his pocket and figured for a few moments.

“Allowing three days for you to get that office and things fixed up and get them cables off and allowing three weeks to get the orders filled and delivered, and two weeks to me to load, I’d ought to be steering north’ard course in about six weeks. With fair weather I’d make Sandy Hook inside two months from the time I clear from New York.”

“Good enough!” exclaimed his companion, “I’m with you, Carmichael. How soon can you clear?”

“I got an offer of cargo now,” replied the skipper. “I can close to-day and have it under hatches in forty-eight hours.”

“Fine! And how much ready cash’ll you want to handle your end of it?”

“Just about the figure you named a spell back for risking my ship and my reputation to run in a measly lot of booze from Nassau,” chuckled Carmichael.

The other laughed and slapped the big seaman on the back. “Does seem kind of a joke, don’t it?” he exclaimed. “Just chicken feed alongside what we’ll be putting in our jeans a couple o’ months from now.”

Captain Carmichael was as good as his word. Two days after the conversation in the café, his schooner was dropping down the harbor in tow of a fussy tug. In his pocket he carried an official-looking document wherein was set forth the fact that the “schooner Ella May, British, Pictou, N.S., Jerry Carmichael, master,” had been chartered by the Antillean Trading and Development Company for the South American and West Indian trade, “said charter to enter into effect from the date upon which the present cargo was discharged and the said schooner ready for sea at the port of St. John, New Brunswick.” And with this was a second paper whereby Captain Jerry Carmichael, master and owner of the schooner Ella May, was duly appointed as agent of the Antillean Trading and Development Company with powers to transact the company’s business that were very broad indeed.

Carmichael grinned as he thought of this. “They’re a bunch of crooks,” he soliloquized, “but dumb fools when it comes to maritime matters. Maybe there’s honor among thieves and maybe there ain’t, and I ain’t taking no chances. Long’s they play straight, fine and dandy, but I got ‘em on the hip. Charterers are responsible for their agents’ acts, by Judas, and let ‘em try any monkeyshines and there’s one agent as’ll make ‘em sweat blood.”

And in the meantime, back in New York, the florid-faced man and his fellows had been far from idle. Upon the glass of a door leading to sumptuous offices in a down-town skyscraper, was the gilt legend: “Antillean Trading and Development Company,” and within, the florid-faced, overdressed individual sat at a masive desk surrounded by all the accepted accessories of a shipping and commission business.

Upon the walls were pictures of steamships and sailing vessels, photographs of picturesque South American and West Indian ports, a huge map of the Caribbean and even a number of curios. A bookcase was filled with consular and trade reports, government bulletins, a Lloyds’ Registry and various publications dealing with shipping and the export and import business.

There were stenographers and assistants; typewriters clicked incessantly and cables were sent and received with amazing prodigality. And the contents of these were beyond question. One of the first had been to a British house, ordering a large consignment of choice liquors to be shipped at once in bond to a consignee in Trinidad, others had ordered similar shipments to Barbados and other British colonies in the West Indies, but there was nothing to excite the least suspicion in these. The West Indians as all know, are a thirsty lot; liquors form a bulk of the shipments from England to many of the islands, and the Antillean Trading Company advertised on its stationery that it acted as agents and commission merchants with representatives in England and various Caribbean ports. Moreover, there had been various cables and letters dealing with totally different matters.

Requests had been received for quotations on sugar, cocoa, cabinet woods and balsa. Whole shipments of general merchandise, of motor cars and of machinery, had been arranged for by the company with various steamship lines plying between New York and Antillean ports. Evidently the company was well supplied with funds and was doing a good business, for it paid cash for all transactions, it had hired dock and warehouse space and its mail was voluminous. The keenest investigator could not have picked a flaw or have found the most remote reason for suspicion in the activities of the new firm and—as a matter of fact, no one tried.

In due time the Ella May docked at St. John, discharged her cargo and paid off her crew. Carmichael wired to New York for orders, received instructions to secure a cargo of lumber if possible, and if not to proceed in ballast, and to sail for Maracaibo where he would receive further orders and cargo. He at once left by steamer for Pictou, returned two days later with a crew and mates from his home town and managed to secure a cargo of lumber for Barbados.

Without unusual incident the Ella May came to anchor off Bridgetown and Carmichael went ashore. He found, as he expected, a cable awaiting him stating that a consignment of liquor was due to arrive in bond and instructing him to see that it was released and shipped to a certain consignee in another island. Jerry thereupon made his way through the glaring white streets, dodging the rattling mule drays with their loads of sugar, the sweating negroes, rushing blindly about with their cumbersome hand carts the innumerable flivvers and all the multitudinous forms of vehicles which go to make up the congested traffic of Bridgetown’s business center, and at last reached a narrow lane and climbed a flight of rickety wooden stairs to a dingy office.

“Well, I’ll be blowed if ‘tain’t Jerry Carmichael in the flesh!” cried the thin, lantern-jawed individual in white drill who had sprung up from a Berbice chair at the captain’s entrance. “What’s on your mind, old shipmate?”

For a space the two talked in subdued tones, for walls are thin in Barbados and voices carry far. Then the white-clad party clapped his hands, a turbaned colored girl appeared and a curt order was given. “I’ve got just the craft,” announced the lanky man. “Give me the order and I’ll see it’s carried out, Jerry. Depend on me. Fifty pounds should do it.”

The girl returned, bringing tall glasses filled with the island’s national drink—the green swizzle—and again shuffled from the room.

As the two sipped the iced beverages they discussed business, shipping, the sugar crop, everything but the matter in hand, until Carmichael rose to go and handed the other a written order within which was folded four hundred dollars.

There’ll be more coming your way if you handle this right,” commented Carmichael. “And if you don’t there’s plenty who can.”

But Baxton had no intention of failing. Armed with his documentary proof that he was the accredited local representative of the Antillean Company, he visited the port officialdom, secured the necessary orders for the release of two hundred cases of the best Scotch, and before sundown had it safely aboard a St.Lucia sloop and with a native crew of two disreputable looking gigantic blacks was sailing southwestward bound ostensibly for St. Vincent. Well out of sight of land, however, the sloop’s course was changed, sail was shortened and the little craft cruised aimlessly about the Caribbean until three lofty white sails appeared above the eastern rim of the sea, and with a curling white wave about her shearing bows the Ella May came plunging toward the waiting sloop.

Swiftly the cargo was transferred, the two vessels parted company and a few days later once more met off Martinique. This time choice wines, liqueurs and champagne changed hands. Off the Grenadines, case after case of Haig and Haig and other British brands were whipped up from the bobbing sloop to the three-master.

North of the frowning Venezuelan coast, still more was transferred from the sloop slipping out through the Bocas from Trinidad, and at Curacao, Holland gin varied the assortment of liquid wealth accumulating in the capacious hold of the Ella May. Then the sloop headed northward once more and the schooner surged west before the sweeping trade wind for Maracaibo.

All her papers were in perfect order, a cable was waiting for the skipper with instructions to load a small shipment of sugar and a few thousand billets of balsa wood, and to proceed to Rio de la Hacha for additional balsa.

When at last she headed northeast from the Colombian coast she was full, the sugar serving admirably for ballast and light, cork-like balsa filling the hold to the hatches and overflowing in generous deck load.

Well out of sight of the steamer lanes she held her course, and four days later the lookout in the crosstrees made out a low-lying smudge of land upon the horizon off the starboard bow.

In the lee of the lonely forsaken islet, the almost unknown bit of land scarcely a mile in circumference, rising barely a dozen feet above the waves and over one hundred miles from any land, the Ella May dropped anchor.

It was an ideal spot for Carmichael’s purpose, a seagirt no-man’s land whose ownership was claimed by Britain, France, and Holland, but not worth squabbling over; the abode of countless thousands of sea birds from which it had received the name of Aves Island, and so far from the beaten track of steam or sail that, as Jerry had assured his florid-faced companion in New York, it was not sighted once in a century.

And here on this God-forsaken bit of guano-covered rock the crew of the Ella May labored like demons at a strange occupation while, from dawn until dark, the staccato exhaust of a gasoline motor frightened the screaming sea birds from their nests. Although balsa is the lightest of woods, handling ten-foot billets for hour after hour is hot, heavy, back-breaking work. But Jerry had chosen his crew from among those he knew and could rely on, the reward in store was great, there was no complaint and at the close of ten days of unremitting toil the Ella May’s sails were hoisted, her anchor rose slowly to the catheads and she headed for the Windward Passage and distant New York.

Upon the rapidly fading islet a smoldering pile of ashes was all that remained of innumerable cases that once had contained the choicest liquors of Europe, while hidden from chance prying eyes, buried in a cavern of the rocks, were strange things to be found upon a schooner or a desert island—four powerful, expensive things of steel and gears and motors, power-driven boring machines with four-inch augers.

Two months to the day from the time the Ella May had set sail for St. John, she was nosing her way up Ambrose Channel, to be moored, eventually, beside the Antillean Trading company’s wharf on the East River.

Without delay hatches were lifted, the deck load of bales was rapidly discharged and up from the hold was swung log after log of the light, soft wood consigned to a manufacturer of life belts through the Antillean Trading company as agent for the consignee.

Each straight log was neatly marked at the end with a red circle and a cross, as called for on the invoices and manifest, and as hundreds of the billets were piled in orderly stacks inside the dock shed, Jerry and his friends were in high spirits.

There had been the usual search of the schooner for contraband, but nothing was found, not even a flask among the possessions of the crew, and not a paper among the mass of documents tracing the schooner’s movements since she had cleared from New York showed that even a case of liquor had been on board.

Everything had gone smoothly every detail had worked out exactly as Carmichael had planned, and when the stevedores knocked off work and the big doors of the dock were drawn to for the night the captain and florid-faced partner felt that riches were within their grasp and that they were absolutely safe.

“You’re a wonder, captain,” declared Jerry’s companion admiringly as, seated in his luxurious car they were whirled uptown to celebrate their success by a dinner tendered Carmichael by the “company.” “Did you have any trouble?”

“Not a mite,” replied the skipper. “Everything went fine as silk and smooth as oil. By glory, didn’t I tell you I’d do it? But say, wouldn’t them customs chaps get the jolt of their lives if they knew what was going on under their noses?”

“You said it,” chuckled the other. “Do you think there’s any chance they might get wise? There’s a hundred grand for each of us in this and I get nervous as a cat thinking of what might happen.”

“Not a chance,” Carmichael assured him. “Just forget all that.”

Upon the wharf, old Tom, the watchman, surveyed the great tiers of logs speculatively. They had awakened memories of the past. It was from just such a schooner as the Ella May that they had been discharging logs—rosewood from west Africa—when one of the billets had slipped and crushed his leg, ending his sailor days forever and compelling him to stump about on a timber leg for the rest of his days.

That was twenty-odd years ago, he remembered, with a vague sort of surprise that the years had fled so rapidly, and they surely had treated him square, he thought. Yes, given him the job as watchman for life; not much pay in it, but better than nothing, by gum! Yes, sir, didn’t know what would have become of Hetty and little Bobbie after Jack was lost when his ship was torpedoed if he hadn’t had this job. But how about it when he died?

He was getting old—couldn’t last much longer—but perhaps he’d hold out until Bobbie was big enough to work. Fine little kiddie, Bobbie, bound he was going to be a sailor, too—just like his dad and his gran’ther. And what was that the little rascal had asked him? By gum, yes, that was it, he’d almost forgotten it—a boat. “Make me a boat, gran’ther,” he’d pleaded, “a boat just like the one daddy was in.”

The old fellow chuckled. Fine way to pass the long night—whittling out a boat for Bobbie—and patiently he commenced searching about for a bit of clear pine from which to carve the hull of the toy. Bits of oak there were—old hatch wedges and skids, broken fir and spruce scantlings, odds and ends of a dozen different varieties of wood, but not a block of pine to be found.

Vaguely he remembered having seen just such a piece as he wanted somewhere, and, striving to focus his thoughts, to remember where it had been, he unconsciously poked at one of the balsa logs with his wooden leg. To his amazement, it moved easily and, his curiosity aroused, he stooped, grasped one end of the billet and exclaimed in surprise. “I’ll be blowed! Don’t weigh scarcely nothin’. Why in blazes couldn’t it ha’ been a log like that that tumbled down atop o’ me? Wonder what dumb kind o’ wood ‘tis annyhow.”

Curious to learn more of the strange light wood, the old fellow drew out his pocket knife and tried its edge on the log. It cut like cheese and his eyes lit up. If only he had a bit of that wood it would be just the thing.

Possibly, he thought, there might be a piece splintered or chipped from a log, and with his flash light he sought diligently but to no avail. Too dumb bad, so his thought ran, he just wanted one bit of the stuff to make that toy boat so Bobbie wouldn’t be disappointed and here were hundreds of the logs with hundreds more still on the schooner. Surely the owner could spare a little piece; he couldn’t grudge the kiddie that. But no, that wouldn’t be right—to cut a piece from a log for the boat.

He was there to protect property, not to make use of it, and slowly, with disappointment in his old eyes, he closed the knife, slipped it in his pocket and stumped with bent head to the little cubby-hole with its broken-down chair. But his mind kept turning to Bobbie and his boat, to the light, soft wood which would be just the perfect material for the toy, to the fact that there were hundreds of logs and all he wished was a few inches from one.

Of course he couldn’t help himself. Why hadn’t he remembered Bobbie’s boat sooner, before the schooner’s captain left, so he could have asked permission? Then he glanced up and temptation stared him in the face. Hanging upon the wall was an old saw, one some careless had left behind and that had been kept awaiting a claimant, and hardly knowing what he was doing, the old man rose, grasped the saw and with his inner consciousness telling him not to and his love for his grandchild urging him on, he walked slowly toward the pile of logs. He’d tell the captain or the agent in the morning, he declared to himself, would explain why he needed the bit of wood. Would offer to pay for it out of his scanty wages if necessary.

Thus salving his conscience, he selected a smooth, straight log, gauged the length he would need for the boat and drew the saw across the wood. It bit in easily—it was almost like sawing tallow—and in no time it had sunk to the depth of an inch. Then, with an odd rasping, grating noise it slid uselessly across some hard material.

“Shucks!” exclaimed the old man. “Derned stuff’s got a hard heart after all. Just soft outside. Reckon I’ll have to split off-a piece of it. Mebbe it’s thick enough. Withdrawing the saw, the watchman opened the heavy blade of knife, inserted the point at the bottom of the scarf made by the saw and, using his knife chisellike, he endeavored to split off the soft wood. For a few moments the balsa refused to split, the blade merely digging into the wood, and then, as he exerted more strength, the wood suddenly gave, a section split off and hung dangling by a few fibers and the old man stood gazing, speechless, dumfounded, at what he saw. Resting within a hollow in the log was a dark brown bottle!

“Wall, I’ll be blowed!” ejaculated the watchman when at last he recovered his voice. “What the—” Cautiously he had lifted the bottle. No second glance was needed to tell what it contained—and as he did so his mouth gaped and he stared with unbelieving eyes. Beyond the first bottle, separated by a wad of straw, was a second. The next moment the old fellow was all alert, the boat for Bobbie was forgotten and with shaking fingers he pulled the straw out, extracted the second bottle and found more straw and another bottle beyond.

“I swan!” he cried. “The derned log’s full o’ booze. By Godfrey, darned if I ain’t run onto somethin’!”

Carefully placing the bottles on the floor, he seized his saw and, utterly regardless of the right or wrong of his act, attacked another log. In a moment he knew. Once more the saw had grated upon the glass within and old Tom almost collapsed upon the dock.

It was overwhelming, incredible. If every log contained liquor there were thousands of bottles—tens of thousands of dollars’ worth—secreted in the balsa. It was too stupendous for the old fellow to grasp. Here, right under the eyes of the customs, boldly discharged in broad daylight on a wharf, were barrels of the finest liquors. What was he to do? Should he call the police? No, that would never do, he decided. They might hold him for a witness, might charge him with cutting the logs in the first place—he had heard bad tales of the police framing innocent men, of their standing in with the bootleggers—and he must do nothing that would take him from Hetty and Bobbie.

Perhaps he should notify the government agents. But who were they, where were they to be found? No, there was but one man he could trust, kindly Captain Carey, the manager of the dock company, the man who had given him his job; his boss.

But how could he reach him? It was nearly midnight; the captain would be at home, and it would be too risky to tell him of discovery over the telephone. And perhaps Captain Carey wouldn’t believe him, would laugh at him. Well, he’d first be sure there was more of the stuff, and rising, he moved to the pile of logs and selecting them at random sawed into them.

Yes, there was no doubt of it, every one was loaded with liquor and now he saw how it had been done. Each log had been bored, the bottles packed inside and the hole plugged, and the plug concealed by the painted red circle—the consignee’s mark on the end. Clever! The old man chuckled to himself at the very cleverness of it, but he had no sympathy with bootleggers.

Years ago drink had been his curse; it had nearly cost him his life, and he had vowed never to touch it again. But now, suddenly, with all this vast store of liquor within reach, with the excitement and nerve tension he was under, an almost irresistible temptation came over him to taste the fiery stuff once more. And with this long-forgotten desire came another thought. What business was it of his anyway?

If the customs men could be fooled let them be fooled. He could say nothing, could hide the bottles from the log he had split, could toss the log into the river and later dispose of the stuff of what to him, would be a small fortune. But the next instant he had hurled this half-formed thought from him. It had been bad enough to try to take that bit of wood for Bobbie’s boat, even though it had led to such startling results.

And at thought of the boy and his mother the temptation to taste the liquor was also crushed from his mind. How would he feel to go reeling home, his breath heavy with the fumes of whisky to face Hetty and Bobbie? It was unthinkable and with his lips set in a straight, hard line and with trembling hands he gathered up the bottles, carried them to his cubby hole and carefully secreted them.

But there was still that log with the gaping hole and the remaining bottles. He must get rid of that, for he had decided that he must wait for morning and then notify Captain Carey personally, and he knew that with that telltale log the secret would be out as soon as the stevedores arrived. The others, those with only the saw marks might escape notice—he could roll them over so the marks were hidden—but the other must be destroyed. So working carefully, he managed to extract the six remaining bottles from the log, half dragged and half rolled it to the end of the dock and dumped it into the stream. To hide the liquor was not hard—no one ever bothered about his tiny “office” as he called it—and thus having settled definitely on his plans, he seated himself comfortably and, almost unwittingly, started whittling the form of a tiny hull from a bit of balsa wood.

Captain Carey had not finished dressing when old Tom rang his bell the following morning. Never had the old watchman called at the house before, never had he deviated one jot from the routine of his work and instantly, when the watchman was announced, the dock manager knew something amazing must have occurred. Slipping on a dressing gown he hurried down, and as the watchman unfolded his tale the other could scarcely believe his ears. But there was no time for comment or for questions as to details. No sooner had the watchman given the gist of the tale than Captain Carey rushed to the phone and in ten minutes was back.

“It’s up to Uncle Sam, now,” he announced. “Now, tell me the whole yarn again, Tom.”

Once more the old sailor related his story, not sparing himself, going into the most minute details, baring his thoughts and temptations.

“And I reckon you’ll not be wantin’ me down on that job no more, Cap’n Carey,” he ventured. “I done wrong, cap’n, to take that there bit o’ wood, but somehow I jus’ couldn’t help it, I was that sot on makin’ a boat for the boy.”

“What did you do with it?” demanded Captain Carey with an odd note in his voice.

Old Tom fished the half-finished toy from his pocket.

“H’m,” muttered the other as he turned the bit of balsa in his hands and gazed at it unseeingly. “Tom,” he said at last, “I suppose that, technically, you’re a thief and I don’t want you back on that dock. You’re going to be up to my office from now on with just three times the wages you’ve been getting.”

“By— Say, ye don’t mean that—honest to goodness—do ye?” cried the old man, hardly able to believe his ears.

“Absolutely,” declared Captain Carey smiling. “And a pension when you’re ready to quit. But I want you to do me a favor, too, Tom. I want you to take this bit of wood home, make the boat just as if you were making it for Bobbie and then give it to me. And I want you to take this and buy the best boat you can find in the city for the kid, and, if there’s any change left, use it for Hetty and yourself.”

As Captain Carey spoke, he handed the half-finished boat to the old man and with it a little wad of crisp new bills.

“But—but—by gum!” stammered the old fellow as his eyes grew moist. “I—I—“ He was interrupted by the telephone and the other springing up to answer.

“It’s all right, Tom,” he announced as he returned. “Got ‘em all; rounded up the whole gang. Do you know, Tom you’ve done a devilish lot more for me than you think. If some one else had found that booze I might have been in mighty bad. I rented the dock to that Antillean bunch and I’d have had blamed hard work to prove I didn’t know. Somehow it seems to me there’s more than just luck or chance in what you did—sort of Providence-like—and all because of that kiddie.

“Aye, cap’n,” muttered the old sailor as his gnarled fingers almost reverently caressed the bit of balsa wood. “Aye, by gum, a little child shall lead them.”

The End

The Mutiny of the Athol

The Mutiny of the Athol
By A. Hyatt Verrill
From ‘Sea Stories Magazine’ 1924 January. Digital conversion by Philip Bolton Jr., Betty Paulos and Doug Frizzle, 2009 December.

The life on a whaler is a series of feverish activities, working day and night after the whale has been caught, followed by spells of leisure cruising around awaiting the word “There she blows.” During the period of stripping the carcass, bailing the precious spermacetti from the case, mincing, boiling down, and filling the casks, the hands and brains of all aboard are too fully occupied to give even a thought to anything but their labors.
But when there is nothing to occupy one's mind and little more for the hands, the mischief makers, who are usually found on every ship, then get to work and stir up trouble.
The author has woven an interesting yarn about conditions similar to the above aboard the whaling bark Athol.


THE whaling bark Athol, sixteen months out of New Bedford, rolled lazily to the long swells of the South Pacific, her dingy brown sails slatting against the smoke-grimed spars at each leeward lurch. High upon her to'gallant crosstrees, the lookouts perched, scanning the vast rim of the ocean for telltale sprays from spouting whales and swung in wide arcs against the cloudless sky at every roll.
In the shadow of the spare boats on their cradle over the after deck, the captain and two mates sat, playing cards on the cabin skylight; the Portuguese helmsman dozed at the wheel, and the crew, seated about the decks, barelegged and with hairy chests exposed by open shirts, whiled away the time by carving odd curios from bits of bone and whales' teeth. In the doorway of the galley the negro cook crooned a plantation melody as he pared potatoes. Peace and calm brooded over the ship. There was no hint of trouble in the air. The men had been willing, content and obedient, the food was no worse than usual. In the hold were tiers of filled casks. The officers were neither brutal nor overbearing, and Christmas was but five days off. Already, in anticipation of the day, the "makings” of plum duff, puddings, pies and other delicacies had been broken out from the cabin stores, and a keg of rum and a barrel of Madeira were stowed in the cabin ready to be broached.
But among the riff-raff crew, drawn as whalemen always are, from slums and gutters, were all the elements of crime, all the fuel for tragedy which might flame up at the least provocation. And, as usual, there were malcontents, natural born trouble makers, men ever ready to break out against authority if they dared. In a secluded spot in the shade of the foresail sat two men earnestly talking in lowered tones. One was a large, burly ruffian with beetling brows, low forehead, piglike eyes and brutal, protruding jaw; the other a small, shifty-eyed, furtive fellow with lank, pale hair, sharp features and a ratlike face.
“It’s a bloomin’ shame, I says,” muttered Carmody, the big man; “here we be, workin’ like dogs, chasin’ whales an’ b’ilin’ ‘em down, sleepin’ in a pigsty of a fo’c’s’le an’ eatin’ wormy biscuit an’ rotten horse, an’ for what? Fer a measly lay o’ one bar’l o’ ‘ile outer every hund’ed an’ fifty! What we got comin’ to us now, I asks ye, Slim? Three bar’ls o’ ‘ile – sev’nty-five dollar – fer sixteen months o’ slavin’ an’ sweatin’. How’d they git the ‘ile if ‘twan’t fer us, I’d like to know? They orders us ‘round an’ makes us call ‘em ‘Mister’ an’ gits ten times our lays o’ ‘ile.”
“Sure,” agreed Slim; “but jes’ the same, it weren’t for the officers where’d we be? Think ye could handle a boat an’ strike a whale or nav’gate, do you? Course we couldn’t. Not that I ain’t sayin’ it’s not fair play fer us to get a rotten little lay like we does, but we knowed that when we signed on, ‘Sides, what yer goin’ to do about it?”
“Aw, what ye givin’ us?” growled Carmody. “Course we knowed it, but did we know we was goin’ to be robbed ev’ry time we drawed a chaw o’ baccy or a rotten dungaree out o’ the slop chest? Did we know we was goin’ to be stripped clean of advance money and what’s comin’ to us from the v’yage afore we come aboard? Ye bet we didn’t. What’s I goin’ fer to do ‘bout it? Aw, ye’re too cowardly fer me to tell ye. But there’s another thing I ain’t told ye yet. Did ye know the Old Man had ten thousan’ dollars in gold in his locker? Course ye didn’t. Nice crib to crack, eh? I thought that’d make yer eyes pop open. Say, look here. Do ye think ye could just kinder size up the boys, Slim? Just hint ‘bout that there gold an’ see how they talk.”
“How’d you know about the coin?” asked Slim suspiciously.
“How’d I know?” replied Carmody. “Steward told me. He heard the Old Man tellin’ the chief mate ‘bout it.”
“Aint aimin’ to start a mutiny, are ye?” demanded the other. “I’m agin’ that. Murder ain’t in my line.”
“Who said anythin’ ‘bout murder?” asked Carmody angrily. “A feller kin git hold o’ a bit o’ cash without murderin’, can’t he? Listen, ol’ man, here’s my idee.”
Bending close, the big fellow whispered earnestly into his companion’s ear. Suddenly, however, the cry “She blo-ows!” floated down from the lookout, and instantly all the men were on their feet, and there was bustle and rush everywhere as the crew peered anxiously ahead and waited for the orders to lower away.
To the skipper’s shout of “Where away?” came the answering call, “Two points on the lee bow, ‘bout two mile off.”
Then, as the whale spouted once more, the order was given to man and lower the boats, and a moment later the two tiny craft went tearing through the sea in the direction of the whale. For a time the two conspirators were separated. Carmody being bow oar in the chief mate’s boat while Slim was after oar in the boat steered by the second mate.

Each crew striving their utmost to outdistance its rival, the men bent to their long ash oars, fairly lifting the speedy whaleboats through the water, while in the sterns stood the mates, straining at the huge steering oars and urging their men to still greater efforts to win the honor of getting first irons into the whale.
Gradually the second mate’s crew drew ahead, until, when within a few hundred yards of the whale, his boat was half a length in advance. Then, as the men decreased their efforts and the boats crept cautiously near the great creature lazily rolling on the surface, the harpooners silently drew in their oars, lifted their irons, braced their legs in the knee chocks, and grasping the heavy weapons in both hands, stood ready to hurl them into the whale as soon as he was within striking distance.
Nearer and nearer they crept. At last the second mate’s boat was within a score of feet of the bit of black skin showing above the sea, and with set jaws and knotted muscles the harpooner raised his iron and with all his strength darted it at the giant monster. Scarcely had the point buried itself in the whale’s side when the chief mate’s boat was also fast. At the double swing of pain the whale raised high it flukes—throwing a deluge of water into the boats, and sounded, while the officers dropped their steering oars and leaped forward, the harpooners hurrying aft to seize the big oars and become boatsteerers.
Like streams of light the lines whirred from the boats, smoking through chocks, and leaping like living, writhing serpents from the tubs, as fathom after fathom was drawn into the depths by the diving whale.
Down, down he went, striving to rid himself of those stinging barbs, seeking safety at the bottom of the sea. One hundred fathoms of the stout hemp ran out. With lifted hatchets the mates crouched, ready to sever the lines and save the boats should the monster sound beyond the limits of the ropes. Then came the cry, “Haul slack!” and frantically the men labored, drawing in the lines which had slackened as the whale ceased his mad plunge. But long before the slack had been hauled and coiled the frenzied creature broke from the surface beside the boats. Throwing his stupendous head high in air and bringing it down in terrific trip-hammer blows with a noise like thunder, snapping and thrusting with his huge many-toothed lower jaw, thrashing to right and left with his twenty-foot flukes, the monster sperm whale churned the sea into foam in his madness.
Tossed on the heaving waves created by the creature’s struggles, half swamped by the water thrown into the boats from his lashing tail, the men alternately backed water, swung to left or right, drew closer, paid out line or hauled in slack, alert and ready for any move the quarry might make. Narrowly escaping death from the descending head, avoiding the shearing jaws by inches, saving themselves from the flailing flukes as by a miracle, they hung grimly on, until, anxious to get another iron into the whale, the second mate’s boat approached too near and the next instant was tossed a dozen feet in the air by a mighty blow of the whale’s flukes.
With their craft smashed to matchwood and one of their number instantly killed, the men of the stove boat struggled in the churning water, clinging to bits of wreckage and oars, until, at the risk of boat and lives, their comrades worked their craft near and rescued their half-drowned shipmates.
Hardly had this been done when, abandoning his tactics, the whale leaped into the air and with a mad, blind rush tore straight ahead, striving to escape from this tormentors. With line straight and taut as a bar of steel, the boat followed in his wake, a small mountain of foam about its bows, the boat steerer straining every muscle to keep the craft on its course, the men crouching low and frantically bailing out the water that poured in torrents over the gunwhales. Then, turning as on a pivot, the whale milled—swimming with express-train speed in circles—careening the boat perilously, dragging it in dizzy zigzags, spinning it like a top, but all in vain. Filled with the excitement of the chase, glorifying the deadly menace that beset them; thinking only of victory, the men waited, confident of the outcome of the battle, knowing that if the iron did not draw, if the line stood the strain, that in the end they would conquer.
Gradually the whale’s struggles grew less, his dashes became shorter, he swam more slowly and at last, exhausted, he rested motionless upon the surface of the sea. Instantly oars were slipped into rowlocks, and silently as ghosts the men worked their craft toward the tired whale. Now came the most dangerous part of the chase, the actual killing, the time of the death stroke with the lance. Carefully slipping the sheath from the keen-bladed weapon, the mate braced himself from the bow, both hands firmly gripping the lance haft, jaws set, teeth gritted, muscles tensed. Twenty, ten, six feet separated the mountain of flesh, bone and blubber from the frail craft. And then, just as the boat seemed about to bump into the whale’s side, the mate gathering all his strength for the effort, lurched forward and drove the lance deep into the creature’s vitals.
The next moment the stricken monster was transformed into a writhing, leaping, plunging demon of titanic fury. Heaving and tossing in the maelstrom, facing sure and swift death every instant, fighting for their lives, the whalemen, by marvels of skill and superhuman efforts, held their place, knowing no fear, oblivious to danger. Their slogan was, “A dead whale or a stove boat,” and presently a crimsoned spray rose from the creature’s blow-hole, the immense body rolled on one side, a flipper waved aimlessly in air and from the triumphant men rose the glad shout: “Fin up!” The battle was over, the whale dead.
But the whalemen’s labors and most dangerous work were not yet over, and as they toiled getting the fluke chain about the creature’s small end and towing him to the bark, Carmody and Slim had no chance to talk or even think of their plot, and for many hours thereafter, as the blanket piece was stripped from the carcass, as the creaking tackles were menaced and the dripping strips of blubber were hoisted in, as the precious spermacetti was bailed from the case and the crew toiled ceaselessly at mincing, boiling and filling the casks, hands and brains were too fully occupied to give even a thought to anything but their labors. But at last the final piece of blubber had been stripped from the whale, minced and boiled; the try-works fires had died down; the carcass, with its attendant swarms of sea birds and scavenger sharks was cast adrift; the decks were swabbed and cleaned; the men threw themselves down to a well-earned rest, and with eighty odd barrels of oil added to her cargo the Athol’s yards were squared and she wallowed on her course.
Well pleased with his luck, satisfied with the way his men had worked, and with visions of being homeward bound with a full ship, the captain decided to make a real holiday of Christmas, and accordingly headed for a nearby island that afforded a safe anchorage.
By mid-afternoon on the day before Christmas the cry of “Land ho!” rang out from the lookout, and rapidly the faint smudge of haze upon the horizon developed into a green-clad island, its crescent beach rimmed with waving palms and with turquoise water breaking in snowy foam upon the coral sand. Half a mile off the beach the Athol’s anchor splashed into the crystal-clear water, and with brailed and clewed sails the bark swung to her moorings off the tropic isle.
Upon the shore a crowd of naked savages watched curiously as the vessel came to anchor, and presently a fleet of swift canoes came speeding and bobbing toward the bark, their jabbering occupants holding up bunches of bananas, green coconuts, squealing pigs and other island produce. The natives had always been friendly, and the captain had no fears of them. As they swarmed over the ship’s side and gathered about, the skipper welcomed them, accepted their gifts and in return presented them with trinkets, cloth, tobacco and biscuits. Soon they were mingling freely with the crew, and preparations were made for a jollification, to include tests of strength and skill, games and general skylarking.
With the natives as an audience, the men boxed, ran, jumped, danced and wrestled in the best of spirits. Watching the fun, good-naturedly chaffing the losers and applauding the winners the officers stood near, until the burly Carmody, having worsted all competitors banteringly challenged any one to throw him in a wrestling match.
“Come on, any o’ ye,” he shouted. “There ain’t no line drawn to-day. All’s equals now. Where’s that there husky mate?”
“All right, Carmody,” cried the mate. “I’ll take you on. Think you’re champion of the ship, do you?”
Kicking off his shoes and stripping to the waist, the mate leaped to the deck and grappled with the man. With huge knotted muscles, straining, panting and chests heaving, the two men struggled and strained. Both giants in strength, hard as nails, accustomed for years to hard knocks, heavy toil and rough life, the pair were equally matched; but while the mate took it good naturedly and as a mere test of strength and skill, Carmody—surly, resentful and ugly—looked upon the struggle as a means of venting his hatred and injuring his opponent. His overpowering desire to play foul, however, defeated his own ends and made him careless, and presently skillfully shifting his grip, the mate threw his opponent heavily to the deck.
For an instant the sailor lay motionless and partly stunned, while roars of laughter and applause rose from men and savages alike. Thinking the fellow might be injured, the mate stepped forward to aid his enemy, only to be met with an oath as Carmody leaped to his feet.
“Damn ye!” he cried. “I’ll get ye fer this! Think ye can do me an’ git away with it, do ye? Jes’ wait an’ see!”
The mate flushed and his fists clenched angrily. “Lucky for you it’s a holiday,” he flashed back. “But let it go. I’m not holding any hard feelings. Forget it, Carmody. I threw you fair enough and you know it.”
Donning his shoes and clothes, the mate resumed his place beside the captain, while the fuming Carmody pushed his way among the crew and stood talking vehemently with his cronies.
The incident was presently forgotten as, tired by their skylarking, the men lowered the boats and pulled ashore, where, until evening, they frolicked on the sand, bathed in the tepid water, and made merry, as the natives pranced about in a weird dance to the music of tom-toms.
The captain, knowing the dire results that might follow, had given strict orders that no liquor should be served to men or natives, but surreptitiously a keg of gin had been smuggled ashore, and though there was not enough to produce intoxication among crew or natives, the taste of the liquor whetted their appetite for more and soon trouble began to brew.
The crew, excited by drink, took unwonted liberties with the natives and their belongings. The savages naturally resented this, and several were severely pummeled by the whalemen. This, however, was not at all to Carmody’s liking. He had no mind to incur the enmity of the islanders; it interfered with his plans, and being a recognized leader and feared by his fellows, he soon had matters smoothed out and peace once more established.
“Cut it out!” he commanded. “The first thing ye know the bloomin’ niggers will be stickin’ ye or shootin’ p’izened arrers into ye. They’re ten to one. What are ye aimin’ at? Want to be sarved up for their Christmas dinner, do ye?”
Thus, with common sense and a few blows, he restored order, and finally, approaching the chief, who spoke a queer “pidgin” English, he drew him to one side and talked earnestly to him.
His words evidently met with the chief’s approval, for the savage grinned and nodded, showing his gleaming, sharp-pointed teeth, and soon after the men tumbled into their boats and rowed back to the bark.
Knowing nothing of the trouble which had taken place ashore, the officers sat smoking on the after deck, chatting about people at home and of Christmas cheer. But they were not long to remain in ignorance. From the dark shadows a figure stole toward them and, touching his cap, spoke to the captain in hushed tones.
“The devil you say, Slim!” exclaimed the skipper. “So the swabs took gin ashore, did they? And you men know about gold, eh? I reckon ‘tis a pretty big temptation, but I guess they’re not such a bad lot. I’m sorry about that liquor and the natives, though. Thank ye, Slim.”
As the informer slunk away the captain turned to the mates. “I guess we’d better stow that gold somewhere else,” he remarked. “You never can tell what may happen. And you fellows had better shove pistols in your pockets. I don’t think there’s any danger, but it’s just as well to be ready. If ‘twasn’t Christmas to-morrow, I’d get out of here an’ not take any chances. I don’t trust the natives—they’re all right as long as sober, but once get ‘em started on drink and they’re fiends.”
But all was quiet ashore; there were no signs or sounds to indicate that the natives were not peaceably inclined, and so, having hidden the gold coin where they were sure none of the crew could find it, the other officers turned in, leaving the second mate on watch.
Listening for any suspicious sound, glancing frequently ashore and watching the deserted decks to detect any skulking figures or unusual movements, the second mate paced the deck, his thoughts on far-away New Bedford, but his senses alert and watchful, for he was fully alive to the dangers implied by Slim’s warning. Throughout the long hours of his lonely watch, however, nothing unusual happened, and waking the chief mate he threw himself upon his bunk and was soon sleeping soundly.
He was aroused by a piercing scream, the sound of rushing feet, the sharp reports of a pistol and the thud of a falling body on the deck above the cabin. As he leaped from his bunk and seized his revolver he noticed that it was broad daylight; then, springing to his door, he dashed out of the cabin and up the stairs.
Upon the deck lay the bodies of two of the men. Gathered in a knot and armed with lances, belaying pins, blubber spades and axes were the crew, obviously in mutiny, while facing them, with pistols in hands, stood the captain and chief mate.
Cowed for the moment by the deaths of their comrades the mutineers stood irresolute, for none wanted to be the next to fall. Then, his big bulk looming above his comrades, Carmody waved a boat spade threateningly. “Throw them guns overboard!” he shouted with an oath. “’Taint no use. We’re five to one an’ we’ll git ye. We ain’t aimin’ to kill ye, but we’re goin’ to have that gold if we have to murder ye to do it.”
A shot from the mate’s pistol was the only answer. At the report Carmody’s weapon fell clattering to the deck, and with a curse of pain and rage he staggered against the mast, half blinded by the blood streaming from a deep furrow cut by the bullet across his forehead. Maddened at the sight and forgetting all fear, the men leaped forward, but at the ragged volley from the officers’ pistols they again fell back, leaving three of their number sprawled upon the deck.
Seizing a whale spade from one of the fallen men, Carmody hurled it at the captain. Still dazed by his wound, his aim was far from true and the keen-edged weapon buried itself harmlessly in the woodwork. Even before it struck, the big mutineer fell lifeless, shot by the second mate, and, demoralized by the fall of their leader, the crew drew slowly back.
At this instant, and without the least warning, wild yells arose on every side, and naked savages poured over the bulwarks. Rushing to the rack of whale spades, the natives seized the terrible weapons and, like fiends incarnate, dashed at the three officers, who, amazed at the sudden and unexpected onslaught, were totally unprepared. Not until they saw the mutineers joining the savages did the three men realize that their own crew was being aided by the natives, and that, thus greatly outnumbered, their own case was hopeless.
Their only chance was to retreat and barricade themselves in the cabin. But it was already too late. Even as they turned, a hideously painted savage leaped forward with blood-curdling yell, and with a single blow of a spade almost beheaded the unfortunate captain. Wresting the weapon away, the second mate lunged with it at the native burying the spade in his breast. Then, as the yelling murderous mob stumbled over the bodies of the captain and their dead fellow, the two surviving officers dashed down the companionway.
There was no time to shut and bolt doors, for close on their heels came the savages and the mutineers. Rushing through the cabin, the mates found the lower decks almost deserted, the crowd being now on the after deck and in the cabin. Bounding across the deck, while lances and hurtling spades whizzed by them, the two men gained the open blubber hatch, and without hesitation plunged into it. Scarcely had they disappeared in the black hole when their enemies swarmed about the opening and the mates, feeling their end was near, cocked pistol, determined to sell their lives dearly.
The mutineers and their savage allies, however, had no mind to descend into the darkness where an invisible foe lay waiting with firearms, and after a short conference, the hatch cover was drawn shut and the imprisoned men heard the sounds of hammering as the hatch was battened down.
Shut in the foul, black hold, surrounded by cargo and stores, without food or water, and with a mob of blood-excited savages and murderous mutineers on deck, the officers’ case seemed hopeless indeed. But they were Yankee whaleman, brave, resourceful and indomitable, and instantly they set to work on hastily formed plans. Feeling their way among the stowed casks and supplies, they slowly worked their way aft toward the door which they knew communicated with the captain’s storeroom under the cabin. Here was food and drink, and from it they might be able to gain the decks unseen and escape under cover of night. The men, they felt sure, would soon drink themselves into a stupor, as would the natives, and there was a possibility that all would leave the bark and go ashore, when, if luck favored the prisoners, it might be possible to swim to the boats and get safely away.
To be sure, there was but one chance in a million of success; but they had spent their lives taking chances and one more or less was of no moment when life itself was at stake.
Suddenly the chief mate uttered an exclamation and drew sharply back. His outstretched hand had touched a human face! Instantly he reached for his revolver, but before he could draw it a few hurried words reassured him.
“It’s me, sir—Slim!” said a whining voice. “Don’t be skeered. We ain’t no mutineers. There’s just me an’ Pete an’ Portugese Joe an’ Chips. We ain’t takin’ part in no mut’ny. We just sneaked in here soon’s trouble started an’ are hidin’ till it’s over.”
Relieved and encouraged at finding four men yet faithful, the two mates rapidly outlined their scheme for escape. All agreed that it held a chance of success, and once more the men crept aft.
Suddenly from overhead came the sounds of loud voices, the rush of feet, savage yells and the uproar of battle. Beneath the decks the noises were muffled, but all knew what it meant. The mutineers and savages were fighting among themselves! A quarrel had arisen over something or other and the imprisoned men had no doubt of the result. Greatly outnumbered and out-classed in fighting ability, the mutineers would be vanquished and cut down without mercy, while such of them as were wounded or taken alive would, in all probability, be butchered to provide a cannibal feast.
But such thoughts held little consolation for the men in the dismal ‘tween decks. Although their original enemies might be destroyed, there were still more dangerous foes to reckon with. Beyond a doubt the natives would fire the ship, when the fugitives would either be smoked out and killed or would perish in the flames, unless, by nothing less than miracle, they managed to steal out as the cannibals feasted and drank and succeeded in reaching the boats and getting away unseen.
Gradually the sounds of fighting decreased, and by the time the men had reached the bulkhead at the end of the ‘tween decks only an occasional scream or a savage yell told of some poor fellow being put to death.
Entering the storeroom, the mate cautiously struck a match, and at the sight which met his eyes a sudden wild idea flashed through his brain.
Before him was a black keg boldly marked, “Gunpowder.”
There followed a hasty consultation, and a few moments later, the hatch to the room was cautiously lifted and the men set about carrying out their hazardous plan. Climbing to the cabin table, Slim and his three companions, armed with muskets and pistols from the stores, commenced firing at the savages who were gathered in the ship’s waist about a broached cask of rum. Utterly surprised at this unexpected attack—for they had completely forgotten the mates—the natives yelled in fright and scattered, seeking hiding places behind masts and hatches. Meanwhile, as the four men kept the savages at bay, the mates hurriedly dragged out two kegs of powder, placed them halfway up the companionway, and laying a thick train of powder, called to the others. All then hurried to the mates’ room and awaited results. As they had foreseen, the cannibals, at the cessation of the firing, decided that the men’s ammunition was exhausted, and with savage screams dashed for the companionway.
As the first pair of naked brown legs appeared in the opening, the mate touched the match to the powder train. There was a spiteful hiss, a flare and then a tremendous, deafening explosion. Stunned and shaken, the six men were hurled flat upon the cabin floor, the door was wrenched from its hinges and the ship rocked at her moorings. Regaining their feet and plunging through the reeking, choking fumes, the six men—yelling wildly and firing as they ran—rushed at the terror-stricken cannibals.
Thunderstruck at the sudden apparition of the shouting men, and with their superstitious minds filled with deadly fear at the inexplicable explosion, the savages threw down their weapons, and leaping over the rails, plunged into the sea and swam frantically for shore.
Upon the decks were strewn nearly a score of mangled bodies, mute testimonials to the fatal toll of exploding powder and leaden bullets. But the six victorious men gave no heed to these or to the corpses of the mutineers lying everywhere upon the bloody deck. At any moment the savages might rally, and overcoming their terror, return in force. There was no time to be lost. With two men to help him, the second mate rushed forward and slipped the cable, while Slim and the others busied themselves unfurling the great sails. Tailing onto the braces, the men, with Herculean efforts, swung the yards and slowly the bark headed for the open sea.
By sundown the ill-omened island was a mere cloud upon the horizon, the decks had been swabbed and cleaned, and under easy canvas the Athol swept steadily on before the trade wind. Then, with nothing but the calm surface of the vast Pacific in sight, and the sun sinking in glory in the west the ship was hove to and the six men, forgetting all differences of rank and station, seated themselves at their long-deferred Christmas meal.

The End

Driving the Motor Car - American Boy magazine 1916

Driving the Motor Car
How to Start the Motor, Use the Clutch and Shift the Gears
By A. HYATT VERRILL

THE BEST WAY to learn to drive a car is to have some experienced and competent driver accompany you, and show you each step in the process. This is not essential, however, if you are willing to go slowly and learn one thing at a time and in proper order. Most owners are so anxious actually to drive their car along the roads, or through the streets, that they start forth long before they have thoroughly mastered even the rudiments of driving. As a result they become nervous and "rattled" when an occasion arises which they have not foreseen, or else they are possessed with over-confidence. In either case, trouble and serious accidents are likely to follow.
In driving a car, you should school yourself to follow a definite and regular routine, especially as regards the preliminaries to starting out. If you make it a point to do this from the very first, you will eliminate a vast amount of trouble, and you will be free from many vexatious delays and minor accidents which are due to lack of care in seeing that the car is actually in condition for operation before taking it from the garage.
Always examine the lubricator or oil-container and grease-cups, and have them filled with the proper grade of oil and grease. Always fill the radiator with water, and if there are leaks about the hose connections, pump, etc., see that they are tight before starting forth. Examine the brakes, and see that they grip and release readily. Examine the tires, and be sure that they are properly inflated and are in good condition. A poorly inflated tire soon wears out, and a sudden blow-out or rim cut may cause a car to upset, skid, or collapse. See that the emergency brake-lever is set; make sure that the gear-shift lever is in neutral; open the throttle about one-third; retard the spark to the limit, and the car is ready to start (Fig. 1.)
An advanced spark lever may cause the engine to "kick back" when starting and thus break or injure the operator's arm. A gear, in mesh, will cause the car to jump ahead and run down the operator, if he is standing before the car; or even if he escapes injury, the car may dash into bystanders or vehicles. If the gears are free and the brake released there may be no danger in starting the car when on smooth, level ground; but sometime you may start it when on a hill or on an uneven surface and, if the brake is off, an accident may occur. If the brake is always set before starting the motor, such a disaster will never occur.
Starting the Motor
IF THE CAR is provided with a starter, it is only necessary to "press the button," so to speak, and the starter will "do the rest," but if the car is of the "cranking" variety, or the starter refuses to work, you should start the motor in the proper manner. Many drivers seem to think that it is necessary to open the throttle, retard the spark, turn on the switch, and turn the crank. In a general way this is perfectly true; but not one man in three uses any judgment in the amount by which he opens the throttle, or in the manner in which he holds or turns the crank. If the throttle is opened too far, the motor will start off with a roar at high speed, or in other words will "race," and one minute of racing will do more to injure a motor than several hundred miles of ordinary road work. The throttle should be opened just as little as possible, and it is an excellent plan to experiment by opening the throttle a notch at a time, until the motor starts. Then mark the exact spot where the throttle-lever was set, and place it at that spot whenever you crank the motor.
Most operators grasp the handle of the crank in the right hand, with the fingers on one side and the thumb on the other (Fig. 2). With the hand in this position, if the motor back-fires or "kicks," a broken arm, sprained wrist, or torn hand may result. Grasp the handle with the fingers and with the thumb on the same side, and there will be no danger. Another fault of many operators is that they stand in such a position that if the motor kicks, the crank may be thrown violently against the body, shoulder, or leg with serious results. If you can start the motor by using your left hand on the crank, by all means do so—it is the safer method. If you must use your right hand, turn your body away from the car, facing the right hand wheel of the car, and keep your left hand and arm out of reach of the crank. Very few engines will ever "kick" if the spark is retarded when starting, but if you always expect the motor to kick and act accordingly, you will be on the safe side. Never "push down" on the crank. Either pull up, or else "spin" the motor. A motor in good working order, with the carburetor properly adjusted and with a good, strong spark, should start readily by merely pulling up the crank once or twice. In cold weather it may be necessary to "spin" it, but it is usually easier and safer to prime the motor by injecting a little gasoline into the cylinders, through the pet-cocks. In very cold weather, if the motor is difficult to start, use half-and-half ether and gasoline for priming.
If you do spin the motor, never start the operation by pushing down; start with an upward pull, and whirl the crank completely around its circle. Most good motors, if properly adjusted, may be started "on the spark." which obviates all danger of a backfire and consequent injury from a flying crank. To start a cold motor "on the spark," spin it once or twice with the throttle well open and the switch off. Then turn on the switch, and if the motor does not start, move the spark-lever back and forth a slight distance. If your pistons arc tight and the mixture right, the engine will start when the electrical connection is made. If the car has been running and the throttle is swung well open as you turn off the switch to stop, the motor can usually be started on the spark by merely turning on the switch and moving the spark-lever back and forth. Whether the motor can be started in this way or not depends upon the condition of the engine, the temperature of the air, and the length of time it has been standing.
Using the Clutch
IT IS a good plan to become familiar with handling the steering wheel, applying the brakes, and shifting the gears before actually going out on the road, especially if you have no expert along to help you. A good way to do this is to jack up the rear axle until both wheels are clear of the floor, place blocking under them to support the car steadily, and fix good big cleats or chocks both in front of and behind the front wheels. Now start the motor, take your seat, shut the throttle and retard the spark until the motor is running slowly and smoothly, and imagine you are actually driving on the road. First try throwing the clutch out and in. Press your foot against the clutch-pedal, at the same time keeping your hands on the steering wheel, and hold the pedal down for a moment; release it slowly and gently, and then repeat the operation over and over until you can do it without even glancing: towards your feet. Next practice touching the accelerator slightly just after letting the clutch in, and keep at this until you can release the clutch, let it slip gently back, and accelerate the motor with perfect ease and confidence, and without giving the operation any voluntary thought.
Next try shifting gears. Depress the clutch-pedal, and at the same time swing the gear-lever in or out (as the case may be) and into the first speed position (Fig. 3). Just as it slides into this position, allow the clutch to slip in gently, and slightly touch the accelerator. The rear wheels, will at once commence to spin, you may now try throwing on the foot brake. Don't throw the brake on hard and suddenly with the clutch in; but depress the clutch and push slowly and firmly with the other foot on the brake-pedal until the wheels cease to revolve. Repeat this operation several times until you become thoroughly familiar with the motions, and then try the emergency or hand brake in the same way. When accustomed to doing this, without having to look for the brake-lever, try using both brakes together. Next try shifting to a higher gear. Depress the clutch-pedal, and swing the gear-lever through the gate into the position of second speed; at the same instant gently release the clutch and touch the accelerator. When you have practiced this until you can shift from first to second without any trouble, and without making a grinding or grating sound of the gears, try shifting from second to third, or high. As this merely necessitates bringing the lever straight back or straight forward from the second speed position, you will find it far easier than the more complicated motion required to shift from first to second. Don't try to shift too quickly or with a slam-bang; move the lever smoothly, firmly, and rather slowly from one position to another, and do not let the clutch jump back into position, but ease it slowly in with the pressure of your foot on the pedal. Care must be taken not to run the motor swiftly when practicing in this way, and if, when shifting the gears, there is a grating or grinding sound, press upon the foot brake to slow down the motion of the wheels which may be revolving too rapidly to allow the gears to be safely shifted.
Don't try to shift "down" from high to second, or from second to first, while the wheels are in motion. It's a hard matter to do this with the car actually moving on the road, and it's far more difficult when the wheels are running idle. If the lever is in high or second and you wish to shift to a lower gear, place the lever in neutral (with the clutch thrown out), stop the wheels by means of the brakes, and start all over again from first speed.
Learning on the Road
THE GREAT ADVANTAGE of this method of becoming familiar with the handling of clutch, gears, brakes, etc., is that when you first attempt a road lesson you will be able to give your entire attention to steering, and you will not have to look or feel about to find the levers and pedals. It is not absolutely necessary, however, and if there is a stretch of good, smooth, open highway in your neighborhood, you may learn to drive the car on the road from the first. Select a stretch where there is little traffic, no railway or trolley crossings, few crossroads, and no ditches or stone walls.
The first steps in road driving should be the same as already given in detail. That is, the beginner should look over his car. See that everything is in order, start the motor, release the hand-brake, throw-out the clutch, shift the gear-lever from neutral into first, let the clutch in gently, and press the accelerator slightly. The spark, however, should be further advanced than when practicing with the wheels free. As soon as the car is moving smoothly along on first speed, throw out the clutch, shift the gear-lever to second speed and set the clutch in. Don't attempt to drive faster than second until you have become familiar with the use of the brakes and the steering-wheel. As you proceed, try the foot brake; practice stopping within certain distances; and learn to steer straight and without zigzagging or wobbling from side to side of the road. You will find that a very slight motion of the steering-wheel will swerve the car, and a great fault with many beginners is in moving the wheel too much. Don't try to keep the wheel absolutely motionless and rigid. This will tire and strain your hands and arms and it is not necessary; only a firm, easy grip is required, and a little motion back and forth does no harm.
It is impossible to describe just how to steer a car; it is a trick which can only be acquired with practice, and if you learn while running on second, or even first speed, you will have little trouble. The main thing is to correct each deviation of the car by a slight touch of the wheel, and to avoid swinging the car back and forth by violent motions of the wheel.
When you can easily and safely guide the car along the road, can steer around imaginary obstacles, and can hug one side of the road without running into the bank, you may attempt running on third or high speed; but be careful not to go too fast, for it is far harder to steer when running rapidly than when running slowly. Also remember to keep one foot on the brake-pedal and the other foot on the clutch-pedal. If the car shows any signs of swerving or of becoming unmanageable, throw out the clutch and put on the brake at once. Then shift the control to neutral, wait till the car comes to a standstill, and start over again at first speed.
The secret of shifting gears easily, quietly and smoothly, lies in acquiring the knack of checking or accelerating the speed of the motor at just the right moment and the proper amount. This is necessary in order to bring the speed of the various gears into a more or less uniform speed so that they will mesh without grinding or jarring. When the ear is proceeding on a low gear, the motor and the driving or "lay" shaft are revolving a great deal faster than the main or driven shaft. Hence, if the gears are shifted to a higher speed or "shifted up," as it is termed, the motor and lay shaft must be slowed down until they are revolving at practically the same speed as the driven or main shaft. This is usually accomplished with little trouble, for as soon as the clutch is thrown out and the lever is moved to the neutral position, the free shaft and gears slow down of their own accord or are checked by a clutch-brake which operates in unison with the clutch-pedal. When changing from a high to a lower gear or "shifting down" the conditions are reversed, for then the main or driven shaft is revolving more rapidly than the driving shaft and gears. For this reason, it is more difficult to shift down than to shift up and a great deal of practice is required in order to accomplish the operation properly.
By throwing out the clutch, shifting the lever to the neutral position, letting in the clutch, accelerating the motor and then again throwing out the clutch and changing to the desired gear, the shift down may be carried out smoothly and safely. This is known as "double-declutching" and after you have learned to shift gears up without difficulty, you should practice shifting down in this way until proficient.
Having mastered the operation of the clutch, the brakes and the accelerator, you are in a position where further proficiency is largely a matter of practice coupled with good judgment. Study the instruction book furnished with the car and follow the directions for operation for your particular make of car.
Of course, you know the most elementary of all the rules of the road—that you turn to the right to pass a vehicle approaching you. When you are passing a vehicle which you have overtaken, always turn to the left and sound the horn before you attempt to go by. Slow down in rounding turns and keep close to the right-hand side of the road. Before you stop or attempt to cross the road to turn up a crossroad to the left, put out your arm horizontally so that the driver behind will be warned of your intentions and will not crash into you.
Every wise motorist makes Safety First his maxim. Do not take chances, proceed carefully. It is better to be safe than sorry.

IF YOU DESIRE information concerning any particular make of motor car in which you are interested, address " The Automobile Editor, THE AMERICAN BOY, Detroit, Mich.," and he will see to it that the information is supplied to you.