Short Stories (magazine)/Plundered Cargo/Chapter 18

by Robert Welles Ritchie

 

Chapter XVIII

ANGELO RENDERS A RECESSIONAL

Spike had not taken a dozen oar strokes from the shore on his return to the Lonney Lee when a sound from the stranded steamer caused him to give a quick look over-shoulder. It was the chut-chut-chut of a gasoline winch there aboard the Sierra Park. A cargo boom hitched to the foremast lifted and swung outward. Spike saw a huge dripping bundle lifted high and then lowered to the steamer rail. Hands were busy with lashing ropes. The bundle tipped and splashed into the sea.

Then a horrid sight. Water was lashed to sudden foam when the boom's burden dropped. Snouts were pushed up. The object spilled from above was worried into fragments, and each went darting off under hidden tow.

A chill stirred Spike's back hair. How near he himself had been to that loathsome partition! Those were hides the sharks were worrying. Captain Storrs, wounded as he was, evidently was losing no time getting down to those precious cotton bales.

Doctor Chitterly's flowing beard hung over the Lonney Lee's rail as a beacon when Horn drew alongside. Anxiety was written large on the worthy physician's features.

“Horn!” he called before Spike was close enough to throw him his painter. “Hear that infernal racket?”

Spike had heard the witch notes of a home-made flute almost from the moment he pushed out from the shore. Now a particularly rasping run of high notes smote his ears. Doctor Chitterly gave him a nervous grasp of the hand as he came aboard.

“Horn, I'm afraid were in for it with that fellow Angelo. He's been doing this ever since you went ashore—making squeaks on that piece of broom stick. When I protested he just patted something in his pocket and grinned shockingly. That rat poison, maybe that's what he patted. I—um—well, I tell you frankly, Horn, I think he's clean daft and I'm afraid of him.”

Spike strode down the deck to where little Angelo rocked on a tub, home-made flute to lips and eyes closed in an ecstasy. One opened at the sound of approaching footfalls. It was all white, that staring basilisk eye. It told Spike he had to deal with something abnormal.

“Here! 'Nough's a-plenty, kid.” This soothingly. “Time to eat. Get busy with the grub.” Angelo continued to blow, his single opened eye enormously staring. Spike tried a new tack. “Tomorrow, you and I'll go over there together.” He jerked his head toward the hulk. “You know what's over there.”

Angelo took his lips away from the flute's vent. “Diamonds,” he said and caught up his wild air again.

“For you and me—eh?” Spike whispered this with an elaborate show of secrecy. The flighty spirit of the flute player rose to the bait. Both eyes fixed themselves upon Spike. Lips under the glossy black. mustache curled upward in a sly grin. “One time Capitan he tell-a me boil two pot coffee—one weeth cigar for you? Remember heem: how I change-a da pot?

“Tonight two pot coffee; one for you an' me—one for——” The black head jerked significantly toward the quarterdeck where the doctor and the Iron Man were. A hand stole into an inside pocket of the little cook's jacket and half withdrew to show the neck of a bottle.

“For the rat ver' good. For men more better.” He winked.

Spike's hand shot out in a flash. But not quick enough. The flute player dropped the bottle of poison back into his pocket and struck out like a cat.

Spike's body launched itself against his; he was knocked off his tub. Together they rolled on the deck, Angelo screaming mad Italian curses. His body was like a watch-spring in its release of furious energy. Hardly had Spike imprisoned thin wrists when a kick from behind landed squarely on the base of his skull, stunning him. He fought to master the swooning sickness—fought and slowly conquered.

Teeth were buried in Spike's left wrist. A worrying sound issued from the Italian's throat. Grimly Spike lifted his arm, and with it the clinging head. He banged the head upon the deck with a thud—again—again. Chitterly and the Iron Man had come running at first sound of struggle.

“Get it—in his pocket!” Spike grunted. The Iron Man knelt to rummage where a nod of Spike's head indicated. Just then with a gurgle and horrid turning back of eyes little Angelo passed into epilepsy.

A bottle which was ver' good for rats went spinning overboard.

The mad flute player died that night after many hours' suffering of a character to wrench the nerves of the three survivors.

And all through those dark hours sounded the chut-chutter of the gasoline winch aboard the Sierra Park, where the indomitable Judah Storrs was driving yellow men to uncover treasure in the waterlogged hold.