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"Help—help—the eyes—the eyes!"
Out of the Dreadful Depths
Robert Thorpe seeks out the nameless horror that is sucking all human life out of ships in the South Pacific.
ROBERT THORPE reached languidly for a cigarette and, with lazy fingers, extracted a lighter from his pocket.
"Be a sport," he repeated to the gray haired man across the table. "Be a sport, Admiral, and send me across on a destroyer. Never been on a destroyer except in port. It would be a new experience enjoy it a lot. . . ."
In the palm-shaded veranda of this club-house in Manila, Admiral Struthers, U. S. N., regarded with undisguised disfavor the young man in the wicker chair. He looked at the deep chest and the broad shoulders which even a loose white coat could not conceal, at the short, wavy brown hair and the slow, friendly smile on the face below.
A likable chap, this Thorpe, but lazy—just an idler—he had concluded. Been playing around Manila for the last two months—resting up, he had said. And from what? the Admiral had questioned disdainfully. Admiral Struthers did not like indolent young men, but it would have saved him money if he had really got an answer to his question and had learned just why and how Robert Thorpe had earned a vacation.
"You on a destroyer!" he said, and the lips beneath the close-cut gray mustache twisted into a smile. "That
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