McClure's Magazine/Volume 55/Number 8/The Seven Missionaries
The Seven Missionaries
Jim Maitland Encounters Modern Pirates Aboard the “Andaman”
By Major H. C. McNeile
illustrations by G. W. Gage
IT never really got much beyond the rumor stage—Captain James Kelly of the S. S. Andaman saw to that. It wouldn't have done him any good, or his line, and since England was troubled with railway strikes and war scares at Agadir, things which happened on the other side of the globe were apt to be crowded out of the newspapers.
But he couldn't stop the rumors, and “Our Special Correspondent” in Colombo made out quite a fair story for his paper at home. It didn't appear; seemingly the editor thought the poor devil had taken to drink and was raving. In fact, all that did appear in the papers were two short and apparently disconnected notices. The first ran somewhat as follows, and was found under the Shipping Intelligence:
“The S. S. Andaman arrived yesterday at Colombo. She remained to carry out repairs to her wireless, and will leave tomorrow for Plymouth.”
And the second appeared some two or three months after:
“No news has yet been heard of the S. Y. Firefly, which left Colombo some months ago for an extensive cruise in the Indian Ocean. It is feared that she may have foundered with all hands in one of the recent gales.”
But she didn't—the sea was as calm as the proverbial duck pond when the S. Y. Firefly went down in a thousand fathoms of water not far from the Cocos Islands. And but for the grace of Heaven and Jim Maitland that fate would have overtaken the good Andaman instead.
And so for your eyes only, Mrs. Jim, I will put down the real facts of the case. For your eyes only, I say, because I'm not absolutely sure that legally speaking he was quite justified.
THE S. S. Andaman was a vessel of some three thousand tons. She was in reality a cargo boat carrying passengers, in that passengers were the secondary consideration. There was only one class, and the accommodation was sufficient for about thirty people. Twelve knots was her maximum speed, and she quivered like jelly if you tried to get more out of her. And last, but not least, Captain James Kelly had been her skipper for ten years, and loved her with the love only given to men who go down to the sea in ships.
When Jim and I went on board she was taking in cargo, and Kelly was busy. He was apparently having words with the harbor master over something, and the argument had reached the dangerous stage of politeness. But Jim had sailed in her before, and a minute or two later a delighted chief steward was shaking hands with him warmly.
“This is great, sir!” he cried. “We got a wireless about the berths, but we had no idea it was from you.”
“You can fix us up, Bury?” asked Jim.
“Sure thing, Mr. Maitland,” answered the other. “We've only got twelve on board: two Yanks, a colored gentleman, two ladies and a missionary bunch.” We had followed him below and he was showing us our cabins. “Seven of 'em, sir,” he went on, “with two crates of Bibles and prayer books, all complete. Maybe you saw them sitting around on deck as you came on board.”
“Can't say I did, Bury,” said Jim indifferently.
“THEY never go ashore, sir,” continued the steward. “We've been making all the usual calls, and you'd have thought they'd have liked to go ashore and stretch their legs—but they didn't. There they sit from morning till night reading and praying, till they fairly give you the hump.”
“It doesn't sound like one long scream of excitement,” said Jim. “But if they're happy, that's all that matters. Come on, Dick. Let's go up and see if old man Kelly is still being polite.”
We went on deck to find that the argument was finished, and with a shout of delight the skipper recognized Jim. Jim went forward to meet him, and for a moment or two I stood where I was, idly watching the scene on the quay. And then quite distinctly I heard a voice from behind me say, “By God! It's Jim Maitland.” Now as a remark it was so ordinary when Jim was about that I never gave it a thought. In that part of the world one heard it, or its equivalent, whenever one entered a hotel or even a railway carriage.
And so, as I say, I didn't give it a thought for a moment or two, until Jim's voice hailed me, and I turned around to be introduced to the skipper. It was then that I noticed two benevolent-looking clergymen seated close to me in two deck chairs. Their eyes were fixed on the skipper and on Jim, while two open Bibles adorned their knees. Not another soul was in sight; there was not the slightest doubt in my mind that it was one of them who had spoken. And as I stood talking with the skipper and Jim my mind was subconsciously working.
There was no reason, of course, why a missionary should not recognize Jim, but somehow or other one does not expect a devout man with a Bible lying open on his knee to invoke the name of the Almighty quite so glibly. If he had said “Dear me!” or “Good gracious!” it would have been different. But the other came as almost a shock. However, the matter was a small one, and probably I should have dismissed it from my mind, but for the sequel a minute or two later. The skipper was called away on some matter, and Jim and I strolled back past the two parsons. They both looked up at us with mild interest as we passed, but neither of them gave the faintest sign of recognition.
NOW that did strike me as strange. A clergyman may swear if he likes, but why in the name of fortune he should utterly ignore a man whom he evidently knew was beyond me.
“Come and lean over the side, Jim,” I said, when we were out of earshot. “I want to tell you something funny. Only don't look around.”
He listened in silence, and when I ended he said:
“More people know Tom Fool, old boy, than Tom Fool knows. I certainly don't know either of those two sportsmen, but it's more than likely they know me, at any rate by sight. And wouldn't you swear if you had to wear a dog collar in this heat?”
Evidently Jim was inclined to dismiss the episode as trifling, and after a time I came around to the same view. Even at lunch that day, when the skipper was formally introducing us and the clergyman still gave no sign of claiming any previous acquaintance with Jim, I thought no more about it. Possibly to substantiate that claim he might have had to admit his presence in some place which would take a bit of explaining away to his little flock. For the man whose voice I had heard was evidently the shining light of the bunch.
He turned out to be the Reverend Samuel Longfellow, and his destination, as that of all the others, was Colombo. They were going to open a missionary house somewhere in the interior of Ceylon, and run it on novel lines of their own. But at that point Jim and I got out of our depths and the conversation languished. However, they seemed very decent fellows, even if they did fail somewhat signally to add to the general gaiety.
The voyage pursued its quiet, normal course for the first four or five days. The two Americans and the skipper made up the necessary numbers for a game of poker; the two ladies—mother and daughter they were by the name of Armstrong—knitted; the seven parsons prayed, and the colored gentleman effaced himself. The weather was perfect; the sea like a mill pond with every prospect of continuing so for some time. And so we lazed along at our twelve knots, making a couple of final calls before starting on the two-thousand-mile run to Colombo.
IT was the first night out on the last stage that Jim and I were sitting talking with the skipper on the bridge. Occasionally the sharp, hissing crackle of the wireless installation broke the silence, and through the open door of the cabin we could see the operator working away in his shirt sleeves.
“I guess it's hard to begin to estimate what we sailors owe to Marconi for that invention,” said Kelly thoughtfully. “Now that we've got it, it seems almost incredible to think how we got along without it. And what can I do for you, sir?”
An abrupt change in his tone made me look around to see the Reverend Samuel Longfellow standing diffidently behind us. He evidently felt that he was trespassing, for his voice was almost apologetic.
“Is it possible, captain, to send a message from your wireless?” he asked.
“Of course it is,” answered Kelly. “You can hand in any message you like to the operator, and he'll send it for you.”
“You see, I've never sent a message by wireless before,” said the parson mildly, “and I wasn't quite sure what to do. Can you get an answer quickly?”
“Depends on whom you are sending it to and where he is.”
“He's on a yacht somewhere in this neighborhood,” answered the clergyman. “He is a missionary, like myself, whose health has broken down, and a kind philanthropist is taking him for a cruise to help him recover. I felt_it would be so nice if I could speak to him, so to say—and hear from him, perhaps, how he is getting on.”
“Quite,” agreed the skipper gravely. “Well, Mr. Longfellow, there is nothing to prevent your speaking to him as much as you like. You just hand in your message to the operator whenever you want to, and he'll send down the answer to you as soon as he receives it.”
“Oh, thank you, Captain Kelly,” said the parson gratefully. “I suppose there's no way of saying where I am,” he continued hesitatingly. “I mean on shore when one sends a wire the person who gets it can look up where you are on a map, and it makes it so much more interesting for him.”
THE skipper knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
“I'm afraid, Mr. Longfellow,” he remarked at length, in a stifled voice, “that you can't quite do that at sea. Of course, the position of the ship will be given on the message in terms of latitude and longitude. So if your friend goes to the navigating officer of this yacht, he'll be able to show him with a pin exactly where you were in the Indian Ocean when the message was sent.”
“I see,” said the clergyman. “How interesting! And then, if I tell him that we are moving straight toward Colombo at twelve knots an hour, my dear friend will be able to follow me in spirit all the way on the map.”
The skipper choked slightly.
“Precisely, Mr. Longfellow. But I wouldn't call it twelve knots an hour if I were you. Just say—twelve knots.”
The Reverend Samuel looked a little bewildered.
“Twelve knots. I see. Thank you so much. I'm afraid I don't know much about the sea. May I—may I go now to the gentleman who sends the messages?”
“By all manner of means,” said Kelly, and Jim's shoulders shook. “Give the operator your message, and you shall have the answer as soon as it arrives.”
Illustration: Before our eyes there burst a great sheet of flame. I had a momentary glimpse of the craft splitting in two
Again murmuring his thanks, the missionary departed, and shortly afterward we saw him in earnest converse with the wireless operator. And that worthy, having read the message and scratched his head, stared a little dazedly at the Reverend Samuel Longfellow, obviously feeling some doubts as to his sanity. To be asked to dispatch to the world at large a message beginning “Dear Brother,” and finishing “Yours in the church” struck him as being something which a self-respecting wireless operator should not be asked to do.
“Poor little bird,” said the skipper thoughtfully, as the missionary went aft to join his companions, “I'm glad for his sake that he doesn't know what the bulk of our cargo is this trip. He wouldn't be able to sleep at night for fear of being made to walk the plank by pirates.”
Jim looked up lazily.
“Why, what have you got on board, old man?”
The skipper lowered his voice.
“I haven't shouted about it, Jim, and as a matter of fact I don't think the crew know. Don't pass it on, but we've got over half a million in gold below, to say nothing of a consignment of pearls worth certainly another quarter.”
JIM whistled. “By Jove! It would be a nice haul for some one. Bit out of your line, isn't it, James—carrying specie?”
“Yes, it is,” agreed the other. “It generally goes on the bigger boats, but there was some hitch this time. And it's just as safe with me as it is with them. That has made it safe.” He pointed to the wireless operator busily sending out the parson's message. “That has made piracy a thing of the past. And incidentally, as you can imagine, Jim, it's a big feather in my cap, getting away with this consignment. It's going to make the trip worth six ordinary ones to the firm, and—er—to me. And, with any luck, if things go all right, as I'm sure they will, I have hopes that in the future it will no longer be out of our line. We might get a share of that traffic, and I'll be able to buy that chicken farm in Dorsetshire earlier than I thought.”
Jim laughed. “You old humbug, James! You'll never give up the sea.”
The skipper sighed and stretched himself.
“Maybe not, lad; maybe not. Not till she gives me up, anyway. But chickens are nice companionable beasts they tell me, and Dorset is England.”
WE continued talking for a few minutes longer, when a sudden and frenzied explosion of mirth came from the wireless operator. I had noticed him taking down a message, which he was now reading over to himself, and after a moment or two of unrestrained joy he came out on deck.
“What is it, Jenkins?” said the skipper.
“Message for the parson, sir,” answered the operator. “There is a duplicate on the table.”
He saluted, and went aft to find the Reverend Samuel.
“I think,” murmured the skipper, with a twinkle in his eye, “that I will now inspect the wireless installation. Would you care to come with me?”
And this is what we, most reprehensibly, read:
- Dear Brother how lovely the gentleman who guides our ship tells me we pass quite close about midday the day after tomorrow will lean over railings and wave pocket handkerchief.
“My sainted aunt!” spluttered the skipper. “'Lean over railings and wave pocket handkerchief!'”
“I think I prefer 'the gentleman who guides our ship,' said Jim gravely. “Anyway, James, I shall borrow your telescope as we come abreast of Ferdinand. I'd just hate to miss him. Good night, old man. You'd better have that message framed.”
It was about half an hour later that the door of my cabin opened and Jim entered abruptly. I was lying in my bunk smoking a final cigarette, and I looked at him in mild surprise. He was fully dressed, though I had seen him start to take off his clothes twenty minutes before, and he was looking grave.
“You pay attention, Dick,” he said quietly, sitting down on the other bunk. “I had just taken off my coat when I remembered I'd left my cigar case in a niche up on deck. I went up to get it, and just as I was putting it in my pocket I heard my own name mentioned. Somewhat naturally I stopped to listen. And I distinctly heard this sentence—'Don't forget—you are absolutely responsible for Maitland.' I listened for about five minutes, but I couldn't catch anything else except a few disconnected words here and there, such as 'wireless' and 'midday.' Then there was a general pushing back of deck chairs, and those seven black-coated blighters trooped off to bed, They didn't see me; they were on the other side of the funnel—but it made me think. You remember that remark you heard as we came on board? Well, why the deuce is this bunch of parsons so infernally interested in me? I don't like it, Dick.” He looked at me hard through his eyeglass. “Do you think they are parsons?”
I SAT up in bed with a jerk.
“What do you mean—do I think they're parsons? Of course they're parsons. Why shouldn't they be parsons?” But I suddenly felt very wide awake.
Jim thoughtfully lit a cigar.
“Quite so—why shouldn't they be? At the same time”—he paused and blew out a cloud of smoke—“Dick, I suppose I'm a suspicious bird, but this interest—this peculiar interest—in me is strange, to say the least of it. Of course it may be that they regard me as a particularly black soul to be plucked from the burning, in which case I ought to feel duly flattered. On the other hand, let us suppose for a second that they are not parsons. Well, I don't think I am being unduly conceited if I say that I have a fairly well-known reputation as a tough customer, if trouble occurs.”
By this time all thoughts of sleep had left me.
“What do you mean, Jim?” I demanded.
He answered my question by another.
“Don't you think, Dick, that that radiograph was just a little too foolish to be quite genuine?”
“Well, it was genuine right enough. Jenkins took it down in front of our eyes.”
“Oh, it was sent; I'm not denying that. And it was sent as he received it, and as we read it. But was it sent by a genuine parson, cruising in a genuine yacht for his health? If so, my opinion of the brains of the church drops below par. But if”—he drew deeply at his cigar—“if, Dick, it was not sent by a genuine parson, but by some one who wished to pose as the driveling idiot curate of fiction, why my opinion of the brains of the church remains at par.”
“Look here,” I said, lighting a cigarette, “I may be stupid, but I can't get you. Granting your latter supposition, why should any one not only want to pose as a parson when he isn't one, but also take the trouble to send fool messages around the universe?”
“HAS it occurred to you,” said Jim quietly, “that two very useful pieces of information have been included in those two fool messages? First, our exact position at a given time, and our course and our speed. Secondly, the approximate time when the convalescing curate, in the yacht belonging to the kind friend, will impinge on that course. And the third fact—not contained in either message, but which may possibly have a bearing on things, is that on board this boat there is half a million in gold, and quarter of a million in pearls.”
“Good heavens!” I muttered, staring at him foolishly.
“Mark you, Dick, I may have stumbled into a real first-class mare's nest. The Reverend Samuel and his pals may be all that they say and more, but I don't like this tender solicitude for my salvation.”
“Are you going to say anything to the skipper?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “I think I shall tell James. But he's a pig-headed fellow, and he'll probably be darned rude about it. I should, if I were he. They aren't worrying over his salvation.”
And with that he went to bed, leaving me thinking fairly acutely. Could there be anything in it? Could it be possible that any one would attempt piracy in the twentieth century, especially when the ship, as the skipper had pointed out, was equipped with wireless. The idea was ridiculous, and the next morning I went around to Jim's cabin to tell him so. It was empty, and there was a note lying on the bed addressed to me. It was brief and to the point:
- I am ill in bed with a sharp dose of fever. Pass the good news on to our friend—the parson, Jim.
I did so, at breakfast, and I thought I detected a shade of relief pass over the face of the Reverend Samuel, though he inquired most solicitously about the sufferer and even went so far as to wish to give him some patent remedy of his own. But I assured him that quinine and quiet were all that were required, and with that the matter dropped.
And then there began for me a time of irritating suspense. Not a sign of Jim did I see for the whole of that day and the following night. His cabin door had been locked since I went in before breakfast, and I didn't even know whether he was inside or not. All I did know was that something was doing, and there are few things more annoying than being out of a game that you know is being played. Afterward I realized that it was unavoidable; but at the time I cursed inwardly and often.
Illustration: Just then, with a squawk of terror like an anguished hen, Mrs. Armstrong rose to her feet and with her pink parasol in her hand fled toward the bow
AND the strange thing is that when the thing did occur it came with almost as much of a shock to me as if I had had no previous suspicions. It was the suddenness of it, I think—the suddenness and the absolute
absence of any fuss or shouting. Naturally I didn't see
the thing in its entirety; my outlook was limited to what happened to me and in my own vicinity.
I suppose it was about half-past eleven, and I was strolling up and down the deck. Midday had been the time mentioned, and I was feeling excited and restless. Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter were seated in their usual place, and I stopped and spoke a few words to them. Usually Mrs. Armstrong was the talker of the two—a big, gaunt woman with yellow spectacles, but pleasant and homely. This morning, however, the daughter answered—and her mother, who had put on a veil in addition to the spectacles, sat silently beside her.
“Poor mother has such a headache from the glare that she has had to put on a veil,” she said. “I hope Mr. Maitland is better.”
I murmured that he was about the same, just as two of the parsons strolled past and I wondered why the girl gave a little laugh. Then suddenly she sat up, with a cry of admiration.
“Oh, look at that lovely yacht!”
I swung around quickly, and there, sure enough, about a hundred yards from us and just coming into sight around the awning, was a small steam yacht, presumably the one from which Ferdinand was to wave. And at that moment the shorter of the two parsons put a revolver within an inch of my face, while the other one ran his hands over my pockets. It was so unexpected that I gaped at him foolishly, and even when I saw my Colt flung overboard I hardly realized that the big holdup had begun.
THEN there came a heavy thud from just above us, and I saw Jenkins, the wireless man, pitch forward on his face half in and half out of his cabin door. He lay there sprawling, while another of the parsons proceeded to wreck his instruments with the iron bar which he had used to stun the operator. Just then, with a squawk of terror like an anguished hen, Mrs. Armstrong rose to her feet, and with her pink parasol in one hand and her rug in the other fled toward the bow of the ship. She looked so irresistibly funny—this large, hysterical woman—that I couldn't help it, I laughed. And even the two determined-looking parsons smiled, though not for long.
“Go below,” said one of them to Miss Armstrong. “Remain in your cabin. And you“—he turned to me—“go aft where the others are.”
“You infernal scoundrel!' I shouted. “What are you playing at?”
“Don't argue, or I'll blow out your brains,” he said quietly. “And get a move on.”
I found the two Americans and the colored gentleman standing in a bunch with a few of the deck hands, and every one seemed equally dazed. One of the so-called parsons stood near with a revolver in each hand, but it was really an unnecessary precaution; we were none of us in a position to do anything. And suddenly one of the Americans gripped my arm.
“Gee! Look at the two guns on that yacht.”
SURE enough, mounted fore and aft, and trained directly on us were two guns that looked to me to be of about three-inch calibre, and behind each of them stood two men.
“What's the game anyway?” he went on excitedly, as two boats shot away from the yacht. For the first time I noticed that the engines had stopped, and that we were lying motionless on the calm, oily sea. But my principal thoughts were centered on Jim. Where was he? What was he doing? Had these blackguards done away with him, or was he lying up somewhere—hidden away? And even if he was, what could he do? Those two guns had an unpleasant appearance.
A bunch of armed men came pouring over the side of the ship, and then disappeared below, only to come up again in a few minutes carrying a number of wooden boxes, which they lowered into the boats alongside. They worked with the efficiency of well-trained sailors, and I found myself cursing aloud. For I knew what was inside those boxes, and was so utterly helpless to do anything. And yet I couldn't help feeling a sort of unwilling admiration; the thing was so perfectly organized. It might have been a well-rehearsed drill, instead of a unique and gigantic piece of piracy.
I stepped back a few paces and looked up at the bridge. The skipper and his three officers were there—covered by another of the parsons. And the fifth member of the party was the Reverend Samuel Longfellow. He was smiling gently to himself, and as the last of the boxes was lowered over the side, he came to the edge of the bridge and addressed us.
“We are now going to leave you,” he remarked suavely. “You are all unarmed, and I wish to give you a word of advice. Should either of the gunners on my yacht see any one move, however innocent the reason, before we are on board, he or both of them will open fire. So do not be tempted to have a shot at me, Captain Kelly, because it will be the last shot you ever have. You will now join your crew, if you please.”
IN silence the skipper and his officers came down from the bridge, and the speaker followed them. For a moment or two he stood facing us with an ironical smile on his face.
“Your brother in the church thanks you for your little gift to his offertory box,” he remarked. Then he turned to one of the other parsons beside him. “Is it set?” he asked briefly.
“Yes,” said the other. “We'd better hurry. What about that woman up there?”
“Confound the woman!” answered the Reverend Samuel. “A pleasant journey, Captain Kelly.”
He stepped down the gangway into the second boat, and was pulled away toward the yacht. And, feeling almost sick with rage, I glanced at the skipper beside me. Poor devil! What he must be feeling, I hardly dared to think. To be held up on the High Seas and robbed of specie and pearls the first time he was carrying them was cruel luck. And I was prepared to see anything on his face, save what I did see. For he was stating at the bow of the ship, with a fierce blazing excitement in his eyes, and instinctively I looked too, though every one else was staring at the yacht.
And then for the first time I remembered Mrs. Armstrong. She was cowering down with her hands over her ears—the picture of abject terror. But now curiosity overcame her fright, and she knelt there, staring at the yacht. Her pink parasol was clutched in her hands; and tragic though the situation was, I could not help smiling involuntarily. Anyway, she would have something to talk about when she got home.
A mocking shout from the yacht made me look away again. The scoundrel who called himself the Reverend Samuel Longfellow was standing beside the boxes of gold and pearls which had been stacked on the deck. He was waving his hand and bowing ironically, with the six other blackguards beside him, when the last amazing development took place.
Literally before our eyes they vanished in a great sheet of flame. I had a momentary glimpse of the yacht apparently splitting in two, and then the roar of a gigantic explosion nearly deafened me.
“Get under cover!” yelled the skipper, and there was a general stampede, as bits of metal and wood began falling into the sea all around us. Then there came another smaller explosion as the sea rushed into the yacht's engine room, a great column of water shot up, and when it subsided the yacht had disappeared.
“What in heaven's name happened?” said one of the Americans dazedly. “What made her blow up like that?”
I said nothing; I felt too dazed myself. And unconsciously I looked toward the bow: Mrs. Armstrong had disappeared.
THE skipper sent away a boat, but it was useless. There was a mass of floating wreckage, but no trace of any survivor, and after a while the search was given up. Just one of those unexplained mysteries which in this case could only be accounted for as Divine retribution.
So, at any rate, Mrs. Armstrong said to me when I met her on deck half an hour afterward.
“Dreadful! Terrible!” she cried. “How more than thankful I am that I didn't see it.”
“You didn't see it?” I said, staring at her. “But surely”
And then I heard Jim's voice behind me.
“Mrs. Armstrong, I have a dreadful confession to make. Mrs. Armstrong, Dick, was good enough to lend me some clothes this morning, so that we could have a rag when crossing the line—and I've gone and dropped her parasol overboard.”
I admit it; I wasn't bright.
“We're nowhere near the line,” I remarked, but fortunately the good lady paid no attention.
“What does it matter, Mr. Maitland?” she cried. “To think of anything of that sort in face of this awful tragedy! Though I must confess I think it served the villains right.”
She walked away like an agitated hen, and Jim smiled grimly.
“Poor old soul,” he said, “let's hope she never finds out what I really wanted her clothes for.”
“So it was you up in the bow,” I remarked.
He nodded. “Didn't you guess? Dick, I feel I've treated you rather scurvily. Let's go and have a drink, and I'll put you wise. I saw Kelly that night,” he began, when we were comfortably settled, “and at first he laughed, as I thought he would. Then after a while he didn't laugh quite so much, and later still he stopped laughing altogether. Finally I made a suggestion. If these men were what they said they were, the two big chests below, which common report had it were filled with Bibles, would prove their case. I suggested, therefore, that we examine these two chests. They would never know, and it would settle the matter. He took a bit of persuading, but finally we went below to where the passengers' luggage is stored. There were the two cases, and there and then we opened one. It was packed—not with Bibles—but with nitroglycerin.”
Jim paused and took a drink, then lit a cigarette thoughtfully.
“I don't think that I have ever seen a man in quite such a dreadful rage as Kelly was,” he went on gravely. “There was a clockwork mechanism which could be started by turning a screw on the outside of each box, and the whole diabolical plan was as clear as daylight. There was enough stuff there to sink a fleet of battleships, and when they had cleared off in the yacht with the gold we should suddenly have split in two and gone down with every soul on board. There would have been no one left to tell the tale, and these cold-blooded murderers would have got clean away. That was the little plot.”
Illustration: Curiosity had overcome Mrs. Armstrong's fright. She was kneeling in the bow staring at the yacht, her pink parasol clutched in her hands, and tragic though the situation was, I could not help smiling, involuntarily
He smiled grimly.
“I had no small difficulty in preventing James from putting the whole bunch in irons on the spot, but finally I got him to agree to a plan of mine. We changed the cargo around—he and I. Their chests containing nitroglycerin we filled with gold; and the specie boxes we filled with nitroglycerin and some lead and iron as a make-weight. And then we let the plan proceed. We banked on a holdup and the wrecking of the wireless. We thought they'd send over a boatload of armed men, and transfer the stuff to the yacht—as in fact they did. Further, we banked on the fact that they wouldn't fool around with a fat, hysterical old woman, or a man in the throes of fever. Good girl—that Miss Armstrong; she kept her mother below all the morning in great style. And that, I think, is all,” he ended, with a quizzical glance at me.
“But it isn't!” I cried. “What made that stuff blow up, if it had been taken out of the boxes with the clockwork mechanism?”
“Well, old Dick,” said Jim, “it may be that the Reverend Samuel kicked one of the boxes a trifle hard in his jubilation. Or perhaps he dropped his Corona inadvertently. Or maybe something hit one of those boxes very hard—like a bullet from a gun. Come down to my cabin,” he added, suddenly.
I followed him and he shut the door. On the bed was lying Mrs. Armstrong's pink parasol. The muzzle of an Express rifle stuck out through a hole that had been split in the silk near the ferrule; the stock was hidden by the material. Jim took it out and cleaned it carefully. Then he looked at the parasol and smiled.
“Beyond repair, old man. And since I told the old dear I had dropped her gamp overboard—well”
He rolled it up loosely and threw it far out through the porthole, then stood for a moment watching it drift.
Copyright, 1923, H. C. McNeile