The Project Gutenberg EBook of Isle o' Dreams, by Frederick F. Moore This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Isle o' Dreams Author: Frederick F. Moore Illustrator: Ralph Pallen Coleman Release Date: June 16, 2008 [EBook #25813] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ISLE O' DREAMS *** Produced by Suzanne Shell, Suzan Flanagan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net cover ISLE O' DREAMS "Come up closer so I can look into the boat," commanded Trask ISLE O' DREAMS BY FREDERICK F. MOORE Author of "The Devil's Admiral," "The Sailor Girl," Etc. imprint FRONTISPIECE BY RALPH PALLEN COLEMAN Garden City New York DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1920 COPYRIGHT, 1917, 1920, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN To MARJORIE CONTENTS chapter page I. Robert Trask Arrives in Manila from Amoy 3 II. Dinshaw Tells of His Island 19 III. Captain Dinshaw Pulls a Long Bow 33 IV. Captain Jarrow Goes Cruising in Strange Waters 50 V. Jarrow Does and Says Queer Things 64 VI. Mr. Peth Is Particular About Where He Sleeps 74 VII. Trask Has a Talk With Doc Bird 92 ISLE O' DREAMS ISLE O' DREAMS CHAPTER I Robert Trask Arrives in Manila From Amoy As the tubby little China Coast steamer marched up Manila Bay, Trask stood under the bridge on the skimpy "promenade deck" and waited impatiently for the doctor's boat to come alongside. He was the only white passenger among a motley lot of Chinese merchants and half-castes of varied hues, and he was glad the passage was at an end. He had made the trip with a Finnish skipper, disconcertingly cross-eyed, a Lascar mate who looked like a pirate and had a voice like a school-girl, a purser addicted to the piccolo late at night, and fellow- passengers who jabbered interminably about nothing at all in half a dozen languages. So Trask regarded the spires and red roofs of Manila with the hungry eyes of a man who has been separated from civilization and his own kind too many days to remember. Before the steamer anchored, Trask saw the Taming passing out for Hong Kong, white moustaches of foam at her forefoot and her decks alive with men and women. She was as smart as a big liner. But he looked away from her to the Luneta and the villa-like Bay View Hotel, white and stately, at the lip of the bay. That was his goal, for he had promised Marjorie Locke he would be in Manila the day before, and he was now a day late. The customs boarding officer took him ashore with his bags and graciously allowed him to depart in a quilez, after holding his baggage for examination. Trask went whirling up Calle San Fernando, through Plaza Oriente, Calle Rosario, Plaza Moraga, over the Bridge of Spain and into shady Bazumbayan Drive, skirting the moat of the Walled City. It was a roundabout way but the quickest, for the cochero made his ponies travel at a good clip for a double fare. The rig shot across the baking Luneta, and ere it had come to a full stop before the Bay View Trask was out and into the darkened hall of the tourist headquarters of the Philippine capital. The place appeared deserted except for a sleepy muchacho, who staggered out from some palms, looking for the new guest's baggage. "Have you got an outside room?" demanded Trask of the drowsing English clerk behind the railing, as he pulled the register toward him and scanned the open page. "I say! Mr. Trask!" VIII. How the Schooner Arrived off the Island 104 IX. Trask Undertakes a Private Investigation 124 X. Captain Jarrow Admits He Is Suspicious of Peth 144 XI. Mr. Peth Does Most Amazing Things 161 XII. Trask Makes a Discovery 179 XIII. What Happened to Doc and the Dinghy 191 XIV. What Jarrow Wanted and What He Got 203 XV. An End and a Beginning 220 [3] [4] [5] The young man looked up. "Correct," he said. "Where did we——?" "I'm Wilkins, sir, G. O. H., Colombo. You were there last year, sir, in from Singapore. You had an argument with a 'rickshaw man. I was managing the bar at the time." "Sure enough, Wilkins! How d'ye do!" and Trask extended a hand which Wilkins shook with fervour, striking a bell with the other for the Chinese bar-boy. "Two stone gingers with a finger of Scotch," said Wilkins. "Fine room on the bay-side, Mr. Trask. And you'll find it quiet enough." "It does look quiet for you," said Trask, as he wrote his name in the register and took off his helmet. It was plain that the tropics had put their mark upon him, for in contrast to the deep tan of burnt umber over cheeks and chin, the upper part of his forehead showed a white band of skin, the helmet line of the veteran traveller in low latitudes. His black eyes were embedded in nests of tiny wrinkles, the "tropical squint," which no mere griffin ever has as a passport. "Yes, sir," said Wilkins. "The China boat cleaned the place up this morning. Not a tripper left." "No?" cried Trask, with sudden concern. He turned to the register again and flopped back the pages. "You must have a man here named Locke, an American, travelling with his daughter." "Gone," said Wilkins. "Left on the Taming to catch the Pacific Mail at Hong Kong." "If that isn't my blooming luck!" moaned Trask, shutting the register with a slam and turning his back to the desk, a picture of limp despair. "Yes, sir," continued Wilkins, coming out from behind his barrier, "the Lockes left here Friday for Dagupan, to be back in time to sail this noon. They must have caught the Taming. I sent their spare trunks down this morning to be held for Mr. Locke. He wasn't to come back here, but go right aboard from the morning train. Friends of yours?" "Yes. We were shipmates from Honolulu coming out, three months back." "Very respectable people," said Wilkins. "I understand Mr. Locke's quite wealthy." "I imagine so," replied Trask, despondently. It was hard luck, for he had managed to take a month's vacation for no other purpose than to meet Marjorie Locke for a few days in Manila and here he was, like a man marooned, with nothing to do, and the Lockes out in the China Sea, bound for the "States." "But why shouldn't they go?" thought Trask. The fact that he was secretly in love with Marjorie Locke, and had allowed himself to believe that she rather liked him, was no reason why she should wait in Manila merely because he had told her that he expected to be in that city on a certain date. "Oh, that reminds me!" said Wilkins suddenly, as he ran in behind the railing again. "Look here! I've a letter for you. Been here a couple of days, never struck me at the time it was you, never dawned on me until I saw you at the desk, then I remembered your name." "Mail for me?" asked Trask. "Why, nobody knows I'm in Manila. I'm supposed to be up in Korea." "Not mail, precisely, sir. It was left here a few days ago." "Who left it?" Trask was suddenly hopeful. "Can't say, sir. I found it on the desk. Rather mysterious, you know. I'd say it was——" He paused, to rifle the letter-rack. "Was what?" "If you don't mind, sir, I'd say it was queer, rather extraordinary circumstance. Now where could I have put it?" "How was it queer? Don't keep me on the grid. What about it?" "The fact is," said Wilkins, "I'd consider it a bit irregular. The backing was done with a typewriter, but the paper—I'd say the envelope was business, but not house stationary. It struck me that way, if you don't mind my saying it. Quite involuntary on my part, but natural, sir, considering the name looked familiar. Of course, I never remembered you in connection with Colombo until I'd seen your face——" "Certainly, certainly," said Trask, impatiently. "Stupid of me not to think of it before," went on Wilkins, musingly. "We hotel men get to notice things, and I shouldn't like to be so slow as a usual thing with—— Ah, here it is! Got in among the steamer guides." [6] [7] [8] [9] Trask reached across for the letter. It was a large, square envelope of a bulky woven paper. On it was typed in purple: Mr. Robert Trask. Consolidated Mines Syndicate. To be called for. The letters of the words were topped by a faint and blurry purple line, showing that the heavy envelope had undergone troubles by being rolled into a typewriter. "Excuse me," said Trask. He tore it open just as the bar-boy appeared with a tray decorated with stone ginger jars and glasses. The letter read: Dear Mr. Trask: Thank you so much for the flowers you sent me at the King Edward in Hong Kong. They were lovely. So sorry we shan't see you again. I remember you said you'd be in Manila the tenth of this month. Dad has changed his plans and wants to get back home, so we leave Manila by the Taming on the eleventh. We are going up to Dagupan by train and will reach Manila to sail by noon. So, if you do get to Manila on the tenth, I think it would be jolly to see you on board. We'll go directly from the station to the tender. I'll address this on the machine, so it'll look most businesslike, for Mr. Wilkins, the clerk, is prone to gossip. Thank you again for your kindness in Hong Kong and your many kindnesses to Dad and me on board the Manchuria. Sincerely, Marjorie Locke. Trask, smiling broadly, put the letter into his pocket. "That must be good news, sir. Hope it is. Shall we go out on the big veranda for our nip? Cooler out there." "What? Yes, certainly," said Trask, reminded of where he was as he looked up to see the bar-boy standing beside him and Wilkins waiting. In spite of the fact that the letter was ample proof that Miss Locke was gone, it had put his head in a whirl. At least she hadn't forgotten. He followed Wilkins. "You look quite bucked up now," said Wilkins, as he pulled out a chair beside a marble-topped table. "I do feel better," admitted Trask. "Just the same, I'm bitterly disappointed. No doubt I'm ungrateful, but I've played in rotten luck." "You expected to meet the Lockes?" suggested Wilkins. "Too bad." "Yes," said Trask, and taking a glass from the bar-boy, sat down. "Here's luck and a long stay, sir," said Wilkins. "Thanks." But Trask was rather listless and tired, frankly bored by the clerk. He stared out over the sickle curve of the bay along the Cavite shore, where a line of white beach made a barrier between the water and the green jungle. The red-roofed buildings of Cavite lay out on the end of the sickle like a clutter of bleached bones cast up by the tide. The bay lay like a great shining shield before him, blazing with millions of mirrors that danced on the shoulders of the sleek and lazy swells, lifting in the sun-dazzle from the entrance, some twenty-five miles away. Trask looked at his watch. It was well after one, the hour when men take shelter from the sun in cafés to talk over prolonged tiffins and wait for the heat of mid-day to wane. A hush had fallen over the city, like the lull which precedes the breaking of a typhoon, a panting sort of hush. Heat waves rose from the bare expanse of the Luneta like siroccos from the nether regions, and the palm trees of the Malecon Drive, seen through the shimmering air, appeared to dance like souls in torture. Beyond the Luneta the tawny walls of the city fairly cracked with the heat, and over them could be seen the sea of roofs of the intra-mural section, the heart of Manila, inside its ancient bastions. Spires rose from the ruck of low buildings like dead trees denuded of their branches. Down the bay a streamer of smoke hung over the Bataan hills, the last vestige of the outward-bound Taming, a sort of farewell pennant left behind to tell that she was driving jauntily toward Hong Kong. "It'll be cooler in an hour," ventured Wilkins. "If you'll order a rig for me," said Trask, "I'll roll down to the customs house and see about my baggage." [10] [11] [12] [13] "How about tiffin, sir?" "Good idea. I'll have it with you. Never mind the rig now. By the way, I heard some gossip coming down. Did you ever hear of a man named Dinshaw? A sailor?" "Looney Dinshaw? Raw-ther! He's a joke." "How a joke?" "Oh, the poor old blighter, he sells pictures which he paints himself. They're pictures of an island he says he was wrecked on, that's full of gold. Comes up here and sells 'em to trippers." "But the island?" persisted Trask. "There was a Swede yarning with the skipper, but they wouldn't let me hear." "Dinshaw's loco," said Wilkins. "Lost his ship on this island three or four years ago. It's somewhere up the north coast. He was taken off by a Jap fisher crew blown down from the Rykukus. He lost his ship right enough, and his mind with it. To hear him talk you'd think it was solid gold." "Solid gold is what I'm hunting for when I'm working," said Trask with a smile. "I'd like to look into this business." "There's plenty who's looked into it, sir, but they can't get anything but babble out of the old fellow. He thinks everybody wants to cheat him." "Where can I find him?" "In the Sailors' Home, kept by Prayerful Jones in Calle San Fernando, a charity place for sailors on the beach. I say, you're not serious?" "Indeed I am. Not that I expect to find a solid gold island, but if it's off the coast of Luzon it might give me a lead to something up in the mountains. The Igorrotes find some gold up in the rivers and I've heard the rocks were mighty heavy. May be iron pyrites, or it may be the real thing." "I can have him up here," suggested Wilkins. "Just drop a word over the 'phone to Prayerful Jones. Nobody need know what it's about. I'll hint he may sell a picture." "Shoot!" said Trask. "I've got a month to kill, and some money to gamble on my own hook. I may take a flyer on it, if I can get anything definite out of this Dinshaw." "You'll have half the waterfront on your heels if you let it out that you're taking Dinshaw to his island. Plenty would go if he'd tell 'em where it is, but they want to skin him." "Then we'll keep it mum! Hello! Who's coming?" He heard the rattle of hoofs and looked across the Luneta to see a victoria whirl out of Bagumbayan Drive. It was occupied by a man in a pongee suit and a young woman in white with a blue parasol which rose above the rig like a porcelain minaret. "The Lockes!" cried Wilkins. "Hush!" said Trask. "Don't say a word about me. I'll surprise 'em!" He picked up a copy of the Cablenews from the table and hid himself behind its ample pages. "We'll stick right here until the next boat," he heard Locke saying as the victoria stopped. "I'd like to see somebody pry me loose from this porch." Trask looked over the top of his paper to see Marjorie Locke, in duck skirt and linen coat, climb down from the victoria. Her hair was as yellow as her wide-brimmed "sailor" and her eyes as blue as her parasol. She was laughing gaily as she mounted the stoop. "You missed the boat!" exclaimed Wilkins, as he came out. "Missed it forty miles!" said Locke, taking off his floppy Bangkok hat and using a handkerchief on his face as though it were a blotter. His nose was peeled from sunburn, but his round and rubicund face fairly oozed good humour. "Your luggage—I sent it, sir," said Wilkins. "Hang the luggage! I'll have a soda bath right away. I've got the prickly heat so bad I feel like a human pincushion!" "Yes, sir," said Wilkins. "Be game, Dad! You always told me you liked the tropics." [14] [15] [16] "So I do—at home in the winter time. I believe you knew we'd miss that boat, Marge. I'm wise! You want to see where Magellan landed and where Legaspi gasped." "I can't say you're a born tourist," said his daughter. "Yes, I am. Just now I'd start for the North Pole. Wow! Those Spanish fellows sure liked a hot climate when they went out to take up land! Whoof! I'd give a lot for ten cubic feet of 'Frisco fog right now! Turn the blowers on in our rooms, Wilkins, and say, aim mine at the bath water. Well, look who's here! If that isn't Trask I'll——" "Mr. Trask!" cried Miss Locke. "How jolly! Fancy meeting you!" "Fancy meeting him!" exclaimed Locke, derisively. "It's a frameup, that's what it is, a frameup on me and my prickly heat!" Trask climbed out from behind his paper and stood up, bowing and grinning. "I'm sorry you missed your boat—almost," he said. "Oh, shucks!" said Locke, taking his hand and pulling him forward. "I don't give a whoop. Marge, I'll bet forty dollars you knew that Dagupan train wouldn't catch the Taming!" "Don't be absurd, Dad. We're so glad to meet you again, Mr. Trask. We were stupid about the train, but——" "You'll have to excuse me," said her father, "I hear the bath going. Wilkins! Feed us tiffin till we're blue in the face," and he disappeared into the sala. "And there isn't a boat to connect with the Pacific Mail for twenty-six days," said Trask. "I'm on a vacation." "You know so much about Manila, too," she said. "But we may go on the Thursday boat." "The Thursday boat?" "Yes." "If there's a Thursday boat, I'll wreck it," said Trask, and clapped his hands for the muchacho. CHAPTER II Dinshaw Tells of His Island "Here," said Locke, "comes Rip Van Winkle—without his dog." "A beggar!" whispered Marjorie, looking past Trask. "Poor old man!" Trask turned from the table, and saw at the end of the veranda an old man approaching with a package under his arm. He looked like a vagabond, in khaki trousers with the bottoms fringed by tatters through which showed his bare ankles; pitiful old cloth shoes; a patched coat of white drill with frogging across the front such as Chinese mess boys wear; and a battered, rimless straw hat. He drew near the table with weary feet, hesitatingly and dazed, as though he had lost his way, peering about like an owl thrust into the light of mid-day from a darkened belfry. "Why, it must be Captain Dinshaw!" said Trask. The old man stopped ten feet from the trio and lifting his head like a hound who has taken scent, gazed at them suspiciously. Then he smiled toothlessly and swung off his bowl of a hat with a grand air. "Aye, sir," he said, in a weak but shrill voice. "Cap'n Dinshaw, late of the bark, James B. Wetherall, lost in a typhoon an' Lord ha' mercy on us!" "This is a shame!" said Locke, in a cautious whisper to Trask, as he leaned back in his grass chair to light a cigar. "I hate to see a white man like that in this country." "He looks hungry," said Marjorie. "Dad, call the boy!" "It's an interesting case," said Trask. "I want you to hear him. Wilkins had him up so I could talk to him. He's got an island." "Would the lady buy a picter?" inquired Dinshaw, with a little bow. "Hand painted by myself, out of my [17] [18] [19] [20] head, from my own recollections. A good suvverner." He began to unwrap his flat parcel. "Come over here and sit down," said Locke, rising, and pushing forward a chair. "You ought to have something to drink and a bite to eat. Shouldn't be out in sun like this with that sort of headgear." Dinshaw muttered a thanks, and dropped into the chair, his thin, wrinkled face drawing into a queer smile. He let the package fall across his knees, and his hat dropped from his trembling fingers. He stroked a tuft of whisker under his chin. "I don't mind the heat, but the soup's bad," he remarked. "Here's the boy," said Trask. "Now what's it to be?" "Eh! Oh, Ah Wing! That boy knows me. A tot of gin with a stinger, and thank you kindly. A master should go with his ship," and he touched his sparse white hair which showed his scalp, and nodded his head, staring out over the bay as if in a reverie. The colour was bleached out of his failing eyes and they had a habit of roving about unsteadily, a quality common in old sailors and probably acquired in a lifetime of watching heaving seas. "Bring some more of the fish, and a big cup of coffee," said Trask, as Ah Wing grinned and turned to go. "So you sell pictures," encouraged Marjorie. "And paint them yourself!" "Aye, ma'am. All hands lost but myself—piled up on a reef of this island. A master should go with his ship." He clutched at his parcel and began tearing off the string. "Picters o' my island. I allus was a painter," he continued, "if I did foller the sea. Why, in my bark, the Wetherall it was, I had fancy picters on the bulkheads an' gold linin' over the white but she got in a twistin' jimmycane, such as we have in these waters. Thar's my island!" He held up one canvas, a foot high and two feet wide, tacked over a piece of board. It was a gaudy representation of an island wrought with pathetic lack of skill. There was a conical peak at the left end smeared with a slash of purple, and over it a very red and very round sun. The land sloped away from the peak to the other end of the island, and was lost in a white streak extending seaward, the the bony finger of a skeleton, marking a reef clothed with fuzzy breakers. A rocky ledge ran down to where the reef began and a big gray stone stood up abruptly, giving the island the appearance of a bluff-bowed vessel, and under it, a triangular patch of beach. Near the rock were four palm trees. One bent over at a sharp angle, as if it had been partly uprooted, and its moppy fronds almost trailed in the still water of a pool formed by a second reef, not so clearly defined, which ran parallel with the land. Except inside this natural basin the whole shore of the island was wreathed by white rollers and behind the shore line was a fringe of vividly green jungle. "Oh, isn't that splendid!" exclaimed Marjorie. "It's a work o' art, that's what everybody says," remarked the old man with a show of pride. "What do you call the island?" asked Locke. "The name don't matter, sir. 'Dinshaw's Island' they call it hereabouts, in honour o' the fact I was wrecked on it. Blown off my course in a typhoon at night and went smash into this reef ye see here. I was washed out o' the riggin', an' when I come to I was on the beach here, wreckage all round, an' the sun shinin' bright as a whiffet, an' me all beat out an' water-logged. Right there it was," and he put his thumb on a spot near the rock. "Is it a big island?" asked Trask. "Not in the way ye might think. Big enough as it goes, but it ain't the size what counts," and he broke into a cackling laugh, wagging his head, as if he held the secret of a great joke. "Where is it?" asked Locke. "Thar's lots as would like to know, sir," said Dinshaw, gravely. "But I ain't in the way o' tellin', not until I can see my way clear to go myself." "It is near the mainland of Luzon?" asked Trask. Dinshaw turned quickly and peered at him suspiciously, pursing his lips. "It is," he said, finally. "I don't see any other land in the picture," ventured Trask, scanning the canvas with more care. "Ye bet ye don't!" snapped Dinshaw, with sudden asperity. "I left that out so they can't find it. Lots as would like to find Dinshaw's island, young man, but I'm savin' it for myself. Jarrow said he'd take me, but [21] [22] [23] [24] he never did. He wants to go steal it himself. I know. I know. They can't fool me, if I am old." "Steal your island?" asked Marjorie. "Why, how could anybody steal an island?" "What's on it?" whispered Dinshaw. "Oh, ho," said Locke. "Then there's something on it, is there? Now we're interesting! Treasure, I suppose." "Gold on it," piped Dinshaw, with childish simplicity. "Gold enough to make us all rich. Gold enough to ballast a hundred ships!" "Ye see that reef? Well, I lay in that bight thar, an' the sun come out. The eye o' the storm it was, and after awhile it come on to blow again, as is the custom with twisters. When the weather cleared again, I don't know how long it was, I crawled down and overhauled the flotsam. There was part of Number One boat, with a beaker o' water an' a ham from the cabin stores. Later, I found my mate, Seth Colburn. He was dead. He'd sailed with me all his life, come from down Eastport way, and a smart man he was, too, at figgers. I dug his grave with my bare hands in this patch o' sand, right there under the ridge, and it was all yaller, shinin' in the sun, as it run through my fingers. All glittery an' soft, like corn meal. That island's full o' it, I'm tellin' ye! It'll make us all rich!" His voice rose, and quavered with excitement. Locke looked at Trask questioningly. "Here," said Trask, passing Dinshaw the glass which the bar-boy brought. "Drink this." "Jarrow said he'd take me," gasped Dinshaw after he had drunk. "Who's Jarrow?" asked Trask. "Oh, he's got a schooner," said Dinshaw. "So your island is full of gold," said Locke, with a skeptical wink for the benefit of Trask and Marjorie. "And you sell pictures of it, eh?" "Aye, gold. An' Seth Colburn's buried in it. He'd laugh if he knew. But Jarrow'll take me some day, an' when he does, I'll go back to Yarmouth an' build a big house, all snug an' shipshape, with a piazza like the quarter-deck of a frigate, an' a garden with petunias, an'—an'—have good soup for supper. I fed my crew better'n Prayerful Jones does, an' I tell him so every day. Them that sailed with Cap'n Dinshaw had duff twice a week with raisins in it, sir, an' Wes' Injia m'lasses." Marjorie passed Dinshaw a plate of sandwiches and served him with a cup of coffee. Trask drew aside, and Locke followed him. "This is right in your line," said Locke. "I've a mind to investigate it," said Trask. "Heard some talk about it on my way down from Amoy." "Sounds fishy to me," said Locke. "I believe he's off his head." "That's what they say here. Wilkins was telling me about him." "You think there's gold there?" "Possibly. The formation of the ledge looks promising. He may have run into a deposit washed out by the sea, merely a pocket, but significant. You see, if the ledge in the picture is a continuation of a crest from the mainland, I might follow up the lead on Luzon. There is gold out here but the country hasn't been properly prospected, owing to the troubles with the natives. I'd like to look things over on my own hook. Of course the company would go in on it with me. I've always wanted to come here but my chief never thought much of it. So I'm on a vacation, and what I find for myself I'll be able to swing. If Dinshaw would split——" "You'd get yourself into a tangle with him," said Locke. "He'd most likely go around telling folks you wanted to steal his island if you talked with him about it." "I'll go slowly and I may get his confidence after awhile." "Well, I wish you luck," said Locke. "I'm going to make the Thursday boat." "I wasn't thinking of going on this trip for a couple of weeks," Trask hastened to say. "Hong Kong for mine," said Locke. "Dad! Come here, please," called Marjorie. "Captain Dinshaw wants to go to his island. It seems to me that you men who are looking for something to do might help him out." [25] [26] [27] [28] "I'll give him ten pesos for one of those pictures," said Locke. "The other for me at the same price," said Trask. "Stingies!" cried Marjorie. "If I were a man, I'd go find his island." "Perhaps I will," said Trask. "None of this Count of Monte Cristo stuff for me," said Locke, as he laid down a bill before Dinshaw. "Say, captain, I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll pay your passage home first class if you'll go so that you can get back to your relatives. Now you can't say I'm a piker, Marge." "Ten pesos!" whispered Dinshaw, staring at the bill. "Thank ye kindly, sir. I'll make ye all rich." "But how about going home?" said Locke. "I'll fix you up with some clothes. This is no place for an old man like you." "Home!" said Dinshaw. "I'm at the Sailors' Home." "But you ought to be back in the States." "I'm goin' back to my island, that's what," insisted Dinshaw. "Jarrow said he'd take me." "Dad, you said I could go anywhere I wanted on this trip," pouted Marjorie. "Where do you want to go, Miss Trinkets?" "I think it would be gorgeous fun to find this island. I've never done anything romantic in my life, and I've always wanted to elope, or something. I'll run away with a drummer in a band—or something like that, if I have to go home without finding an island—a tropical island, with a wreck, too—and sailors buried on it—and gold! I'm for it, strong." "Not so strong as I am for a touch of cool weather," laughed Locke. "That reminds me, it's time for another soda——" "Dad!" But Locke disappeared into the hall, laughing, saying something about Timbuctoo and other places he would not care to visit. "And he's finding fault about having to live in tourist hotels and listen to bored guides! And here's a chance to get off the main stamping ground, as he calls it, and help a poor old man." "We don't like to get far from the comforts of civilization, after all," said Trask. "But I don't know of anything I'd rather do than take you and your father cruising." "I wish there wasn't any old Thursday boat," wailed Marjorie. "We might argue him into going if we had more time." "You've got to miss that Thursday boat," declared Trask. "We ought to be able to kidnap him or something." "What's the name?" asked Dinshaw, rising from the table and putting on his hat. "Locke," said Marjorie. "Mr. Locke. You come up again to-morrow and see us." "I'll have to paint another picter," said Dinshaw. "Here," said Trask. "You take this one with you, and bring it back to-morrow, when I'll pay you twenty pesos for it. That'll give you an excuse for coming back. And don't say a word to anybody." "Locke," murmured Dinshaw. "Mr. Locke." "You ought to eat some more," said Marjorie. "Can't stop," said Dinshaw, gathering up the other picture, which he had not unwrapped. "Can't wait for the tide. I'll go see Jarrow. He said he'd take me." "Now look here," said Trask. "Don't you say a word to anybody. Understand? Don't tell anybody!" "I'm a clam, sir, a clam," said Dinshaw, solemnly, and blinking his eyes at the sun which assailed him from the bare Luneta, he hurried down the steps and hastened away. "Poor old duffer," said Trask. "We've got to help him find his island," said Marjorie. "I'll tell you what to do. Dad wants to get up to Hong Kong because there's a man at the King Edward he can beat at billiards." [29] [30] [31] "What's that got to do with it?" asked Trask, vaguely. "You're a regular man!" she retorted. "Can't you see? Can you play billiards?" "A little," admitted Trask. "Come up to our rooms and have tea," she said. "Then you get Dad into a game of billiards, play as well as you can and—lose." "A whale of an idea!" exclaimed Trask. "And don't say anything more about the island," warned Marjorie. "Dad's stubborn, but he's easy to handle. We'll act as if we didn't care a whoop about this Dinshaw business—until we miss the Thursday boat. Then we'll give him no rest. But remember, I'm for the Thursday boat. That's just to throw him off his guard. He's a dear old Dad, but sometimes he's balky." CHAPTER III Captain Dinshaw Pulls a Long Bow Below the customs house in Manila, close to the embankment of the Pasig River, on the Binondo side, opposite Fort Santiago and the Walled City, there is an ancient adobe building thatched with nipa. Its narrow door opens on the waterfront. High and narrow windows, devoid of glass or shell, are mere slits cut through the walls. Seen from the river, they have a striking resemblance to the gun-ports of an ancient battleship. This place is known to sailormen the world over as "The Cuartel" and probably takes its name from the fact that it was a sort of block house used by the Spanish, to hold the approaches to the river. It stands at the head of a narrow little street which twists back into the native quarter of Tondo, and affords a haven for the mixed population which labours on the Mole—coolies, seamen, Chinese mess "boys," Tagalog cargadores, Lascar serangs, stalwart Sikh watchmen from the hemp and sugar godowns, squat Germans in white suits with pencils stuck in their sun helmets and wearing amber-coloured spectacles. British clerks with cargo lists, customs brokers, barking mates with blasphemous vocabularies, Scotch mechanics with parched throats, and all the underlings who have to do with ships and their freights. Here they all gather for their tipple and gossip, easy at friendships and quick at quarrels. They babble of things which their employers would have kept secret, their tongues limbered by drams from square- shouldered greenish bottles, Dutch as dykes, which line the shelves behind the bar. The Cuartel is owned by a black man from Batavia who calls himself Vanderzee. His mother was a Kling. He was berth-deck cook of a gunboat, by his own report, and "Jack o' the Dust" in a river monitor up "China way." That's all anybody seems to know about him, and it is suspected that he has his own reasons for keeping a clove hitch on his tongue about himself. There are legends about fortunes which have been made out of bits of news gleaned from conversations before the bar of the Cuartel. The lampman of a Blackpool tramp remarked over his peg of rum that his skipper liked smoked eels for breakfast and was taking on a cargo of best steaming coal for Kamrangh Bay. This knowledge enabled Togo to destroy the Baltic fleet in the Tushima Straits. And a stevedore made something like a million dollars out of a cargo of canned salmon by hearing some cockney give his theory about how the blockade could be run to Port Arthur. Vanderzee made some of his profits out of a little room at the far end of his bar, where a man could sit hidden by tawny tapa curtains rove on a bamboo pole, and have privacy while he heard what was being said at the bar. The room had a marble-topped table and two chairs. Two men were inside of an afternoon, playing at cribbage. One was short and heavily built, with powerful shoulders threatening to break through the seams of his white drill jacket. His black hair was clipped close to his skull, making his ears appear to stick out amazingly. He had black moustaches which grew down over his mouth, masking it. His face was brown and rough hewn. A straw hat, curled up into a grotesque shape, lay at his feet like some distorted bivalve. Its owner had an air of authority about him, even a touch of dominance in the way he scanned his cards or moved the pegs in the board. When his arm went out to the table, it moved with a ponderous steadiness. His brown and hairy hand had the slow, powerful sweep of a derrick-boom. His companion was thin and angular, quick-eyed and nervous in his movements, as though he moved on a gear of higher speed than his opponent in the game. He crouched over the table when he shuffled the [32] [33] [34] [35] [36] cards or played them, without lifting his elbows from the table, in the fashion of a jealous dog with a bone. He wore a blue cap with a polished black visor, tilted back on his head, giving him a rakish, devil- may-care aspect. His long and lean face, cut with wrinkles, was twisted into a sly grin, as if he thought he had the advantage of the other man. The tapa curtains were closed. The alcove was lighted from two of the narrow windows, cut so high in the wall that they gave no view of the Mole and the street outside unless a man were to climb on a chair and get his shoulders on a level with the bamboo rafters, where the tiny lizards prowled in the dust and hunted flies. The roar of the docks surged through dull and confused, a medley of clanking hatch-covers, complaining tackle, deep-throated protests of donkey-engines, outlandish commands from stevedores, and the yelps of high-strung little tugs bossing the lighters. Vanderzee pottered at his books behind the bar, smoking a china pipe. His watchful eye was on his Chinese boy polishing the brasswork of the taps. The last of the noon idlers had gone, and the door leading to the Mole was shut against the hot breeze lifting from the sun's glare on the river. Then a beam of light whipped across the floor with a shuffle of feet on the stone steps outside. Captain Dinshaw tottered in, gasping for breath and shaking with excitement. "Van!" he cried, weakly, making for the bar. "I'm rich!" The black man grunted, and put his pipe in his mouth, staring past Dinshaw at the door as if he expected to see a pursuing party burst in and attack the old man, who seemed spent from running. "Who's der drouble?" he growled. "For v'y you roon?" "I've hauled the wind!" cried Dinshaw, dropping his parcel on the bar, and throwing up his hands in a gesture of wild delight. "My luck's turned! I'm a rich man, I tell ye!" "Vell," remarked Vanderzee with stolid calm. "If you puy a monkey in some oder blaces, don'd pring him here to me. You vant me droubles to haff der bolice mit, hey? A few trinks you get, der sun your het in, und—dronk der Cuartel in und my license I loose maype." "I'll make ye rich!" persisted Dinshaw, in his high-pitched, quivering voice, and giving no heed to the admonitions of the black man and not in the least disconcerted by the lack of welcome. "I'm goin' to my island!" "Der more kvicker, der more petter," said Vanderzee, and humped his shoulders up with a convulsive shrug. "Maype you prink it back und anchor it off der lighthouse, hey?" "Jarrow'll take me in the Nuestra," continued Dinshaw, now as if talking to himself. "I'll be rich and have good soup for supper. I've got the tide this time, an' no mistake. It's turned for me, as I allus said it would, and Jarrow'll head out for my island. I tell ye, man, it's all settled. Have ye seen Jarrow?" "Charrow petter nod see you. Crassy you iss." "He'll want to see me, an' don't forget," said Dinshaw, wagging his head. "Jarrow's the man for me and ——" The tapa curtains were thrust aside violently, and the short, squat man with clipped hair stood between them, glowering, one hand gripped into a fist, and the other holding the swaying fabric. "What's this of me and the Nuestra?" he roared. His moustaches puffed out at each word, and his jaw lifted to a pugnacious angle as he threw back his head. He screwed up his eyes into a sort of malevolent grin which did not extend below the bridge of his nose. Dinshaw blinked at him for a minute, taken aback by the picture of this man, who seemed about to charge into the room after him. "You said you'd go," said Dinshaw. "You lay off this blasted chin-chin about me and my schooner!" raged Jarrow. "I've heard enough of it!" "But I'm in soundin's, cap'n. We're bound out in the Nuestra for the island! We're goin——" "Git out!" snapped Jarrow, and clumping out into the room, lifted a hairy fist at the old man. But Dinshaw held his ground, and as Vanderzee cried out to take care, the captain merely pushed the old man back with a snort of rage. "But it's all settled, I tell ye!" insisted Dinshaw. "Hard and fast. We're to go——" [37] [38] [39] [40] "Then go!" snarled Jarrow. "Go jump off the Mole, and give me some rest and quiet. I got other things to 'tend to. How'm I to git a charter for the Nuestra, with you and yer slack jaw runnin' wild up and down the waterfront tellin' all hands and the ship's cook I'm goin' to yer blasted island in my schooner? Hop in the river, but keep clear o' me and mine! Won't have it from ye!" "Der sun his het in," said Vanderzee, with a significant nod toward Dinshaw. He wanted to avoid trouble. "He iss crassy." The tall, thin man now parted the curtains and came out, his long legs moving stiffly across the floor. He glanced at Dinshaw with a sneering, wicked eye and sniffed contemptuously. He gave the twisted straw hat to Jarrow, who pulled it open and clamped it over his clipped skull. They both turned to the bar. "Ye said ye'd go," piped Dinshaw. "Ye allus said ye'd take me, an' now's the chance. I ain't goin' to stay with Prayerful Jones no more. I'm goin to pack my dunnage an' take it aboard the Nuestra." "There ye go!" cried Jarrow, swinging toward him, and extending a brawny arm wrathfully. "Ye make fast to me like a devilfish! That's the tune ye've been singin' for years! 'Said ye'd go!' Same old story! Why, I——" He paused, as if at a loss for words to express his disgust, and pulled a cigar from his pocket. He bit the end from it with a twisting motion of his head. The tall man sighed wearily. "Ach!" said Vanderzee. "No harm. Who iss to giff mind to vat he say? He iss crassy." "There's a-plenty to give mind to it," snarled Jarrow. "Didn't I lose a charter last dry season to bring wood from Mindoro? What with this booby-bird goin' round Manila with word I'm to take the Nuestra to his fool island, who's to want my boat? Here I am now, lookin' to sign up a gover'ment hay charter, and he'll put me high and dry if this word is passed along again. I won't have it. I'll see the police." "Can't ye let me tell——?" began Dinshaw. "Come along of me, Peth," said Jarrow. The angular man, who had arranged the upper part of his body in such manner that the bar afforded possibilities for rest, unfolded himself and moved toward his companion. "I'll make ye all rich," wailed Dinshaw. "You'll cost me a pretty penny, that's what!" exploded Jarrow, turning back from the door. "I never said I'd take ye, and ye can git that out of yer fool head! Here I am, kickin' my heels around port and my schooner feedin' barnacles off the breakwater, all 'cause ye've got somethin' chafin' yer top-hamper. I won't stand for it no more." "But I got a man to take us," pleaded Dinshaw, going after him. "A man said he'd charter the Nuestra and we'd all go. Two men and a lady it was, up at the——" "Oh, I've heard enough of yer cock-and-bull yarns," retorted Jarrow, who was not averse to freeing his mind on Dinshaw. "What the devil do ye want to make fast to me fer! I don't want ye traversin' round charterin' my schooner and me. Makin' jokes for the loafers up on the canal. Ye done that once before, and ye'll do it again. I'll have the police on ye! It's about time Prayerful Jones was shut of lettin' loose his bums and lunatics on us folks with property." "No harm," said Vanderzee, soothingly. "I say it is harm! I'm hailed whurever I go about this business of the old un's island, Van! Just 'cause I've got a schooner, it's Jarrow, Jarrow, Jarrow! I'd look fine and smart cruisin' round for a P. D. island, wouldn't I? Now tell me that?" "It's a lie!" cried Dinshaw. "Them geodetic youngsters didn't look for my island, an' what's more, they wouldn't know it if they found it. That's why they come back with a 'Position Doubtful' report. Think I'm goin' to let them young whippersnappers know about my island so they can find it? Find it! I can find it with a bone quadrant and——" "Find Tophet!" yelled Jarrow, and turned to the door. "Look here!" shouted Dinshaw, reaching into his pocket and fishing out the bill he got from Locke for his picture. "I can prove it! Here's money, planked down, and more where it comes from. I'm to go, I tell ye, an' if ye don't want none of it, I'll see Hood about a boat. I thought ye was a friend of mine, Jarrow, so I come to ye. This man I got could buy your old schooner and a hundred like her, an' never miss the money. He asked for a boat and I said Jarrow, an' when the young lady asked who's to skipper it, I said Jarrow's the man, an' Peth for mate, an' he sung out for me to bring ye up to the tavern an' sign the charter. I'll say no more—I'll see Hood." "What's this?" demanded Jarrow, turning back to stare at the bill. Vanderzee leaned over the bar, and [41] [42] [43] [44] Peth craned his neck forward, maintaining his eternal grin. They had never seen Dinshaw with so much wealth before. "Money!" piped Dinshaw, triumphantly. "Has he gone plumb loco?" asked Jarrow, looking at Vanderzee. "Dot money ain'd crassy," said the black man. "Where'd ye git it?" asked Jarrow, reluctantly gentle. "A rich man at the Bay View—with a young lady and a young man in a helmet. I told 'em about the Wetherall and they give me this money to buy clothes, and sent me on the run for you. They want to go to the Golden Isle. I better see what Hood's got for charter." "You better stay right here," said Jarrow, pushing Dinshaw back toward the bar. "I'm goin' to look into this." "I'll see Hood," persisted Dinshaw. "Luff!" commanded Jarrow, holding out his arms to head Dinshaw off from the door. "You'll see me! You've been usin' me and my schooner long enough, and if there's anything in this yarn of yours, it's mine. Who's this man?" "He's a rich man, and he'll take us," said Dinshaw. "I'd believe ye sooner if ye said ye saw pink elephants," said Jarrow. "Git down to cases. What's his name?" "Money talks," suggested Vanderzee. "Moonshine!" declared Peth. "His name's Locke," said Dinshaw. "Will ye go, Jarrow? I'll make ye all rich." "Now what did this Locke man say?" demanded Jarrow. "I don't want any ravin's. I want facts, straight out, so you come up into the wind. What'd he say?" "He said to look sharp about it," said Dinshaw, blinking at Jarrow, a trifle confused at being questioned. "Stores and crew—right away, and be ready to sail in a day's time. We don't want no soldierin' on the job. It's to be up hook and away and look lively. You'll have to move navy style, Jarrow. You know me." "Thinks I'm foremast in his brig," said Jarrow, with a leer at Vanderzee. "You better cut over across the river," said Dinshaw, "and tell him you're ready and you'll have the Nuestra alongside the Mole by dark to take on stores, or he'll have another boat. He said somethin' about knowin' a man out here who had a yacht, comin' down from Japan." "Smoke," said Peth. "I wonder," remarked Jarrow, scratching his head. "Sure ye didn't lift that ten-peso bill from Prayerful Jones? I'll be bugs myself if I listen to you." "Hood'll listen," said Dinshaw, crisply, and made a new effort to reach the door. "Vhy don'd you to der Pay Few go?" suggested Vanderzee. Jarrow looked at himself. "I'd have to shift my duds," he said, "and I ain't for huntin' sharks' eggs on Looney's say. What ye think, Peth? Shall we fill up that way?" "I ain't no hand for them swells," said Peth. "You go, cap'n, an' I'll stand by down here with Dinshaw." "Vait!" said Vanderzee, holding up a black hand. "Vot's der name? Locke!" He stepped into a tiny office behind the bar. They heard him asking the clerk at the Bay View if there was a man named Locke staying there. In an instant he was back again, grinning. "Iss!" he exclaimed. "So soon I know, I hang opp." "Well," said Jarrow, who was still in doubt as to what he should do, "that's somethin' to know. Maybe some rich tourist did fall for Looney's yarn." Peth went back to the bar and leaned against it as if he had made up his mind not to move until Jarrow reached some decision. "By the Mighty Nelson, I've got a twist in my chains to take a run over to the hotel!" [45] [46] [47] [48]