# The Blue Book Magazine/Mostly Providence

Extracted from The Blue Book Magazine, June 1923, pp. 33–41. Title illustration may be omitted.
Mostly Providence
A thrilling romance of the East Indies, by the brilliant author of “Lou-Lou,”’ “The Taiping Ring,” “Shadows of Saffron” and many other memorable Blue Book Magazine stories.
By H. Bedford-Jones
SOME men believe in chance. Some in Providence. Some, not always believe in themselves. Some believe quite certain in what they believe, take what comes and make the best of it, usually with a laugh. Of this last type was Jim Morris.
The dinghy, badly smashed up and barely floating, drifted to the heave of long, swinging seas, amid a welter of fog. Morris had been in her two days, without food or water, since the schooner went down. Now he lay outstretched in the bow—a thin, gaunt figure of youth, nearly naked, his red-bronze hair matted with brine, his quick blue eyes a little dimmed but struggling with vitality.
“It's land,” he muttered thickly, “but what land is it? Borneo? Then I'm a goner.”
He could smell the mangroves through the fog, the odor of decaying fish and twisted sliminess of mangroves and reek of jungle. Nothing was in sight. Slowly and imperceptibly the dinghy was floating in with the tide.
As he strained to see through the fog, an object grew directly ahead of him. He blinked at it, rubbed his eyes, blinked again. No, it was real, rocking on the swells! His hand went to the knife at his waist. An insane, incredulous laugh broke from his lips.
There, under his hand, was a tiny float of rattans, and lashed to the float was a tiny red skull. It was a perfect skull, yet only a span across, painted a glittering scarlet.
Impulsively, Morris reached down with his knife. He slashed the float free, and with a great effort raised it to the gunnel. He stared at it a moment, realized that the skull must be that of a monkey; another laugh broke on his dry, split lips. With a slash of the knife, he cut the float free and tossed it overboard. The skull he placed on the little bow thwart just ahead of him. Then, weakened, he fell back and lay quiet, senseless and too feeble to move.
SUNRISE came and broke the fog. Morris tried to rise, and failed. He twisted about and saw the skull, and laughed.
“The Dyaks will get two heads instead of one,” he thought.
Then, after a little, he made another effort. This time he drew himself up to the thwart and stared. The boat had come in, almost to land; ten feet away rose the dark trees, the tangled cluster of mangrove roots! And to his left was a creek—fresh water!
A hoarse, throaty sound came from his swollen throat. Morris rose to his feet, swaying. As though echoing the sound he had uttered, he caught another sound from behind him, and turned. To his consternation, he saw a Dyak fishing-craft plunging through the rifted fog, heard a loud yell, knew himself lost.
Weakly he clutched at his sheath-knife, his blue eyes flaming up in a last effort of will and energy. The Dyaks came alongside, three of them in the craft—then they seemed paralyzed. They stared past Morris, their eyes fastened on the red skull. A burst of speech leaped from them; Morris could make no answer, for he was past speech. He opened his lips, and they saw his swollen tongue.
One of them leaped forward, grinned, held a water-bottle to his lips.
That was all Morris remembered, for the shock of this friendly action left him nerveless, and his weakened body gave way. He wakened again, some time later, to find himself lying between mat partitions, in a long-house, and beside him the most glorious woman he had ever seen. He thought himself dreaming, and went to sleep again.
The woman was real, however.
He discovered the fact later on, that night, by the flicker of a flame in the mud fireplace. She fed him carefully, smiling down upon him, a golden woman, of fine aureate skin and blue eyes like stars and red-gold hair gleaming low across her brow. So, despite the clothes upon her, Morris knew that she was white, and a mere girl, and beautiful.
He could not talk to her. He could not talk with any of the Dyaks, for he knew neither their tongue nor Low Malay. He found that they respected him and considered him a great man, because of that little red skull which had lain in his boat, and which they carefully preserved.
He could love the golden girl, however, and he did so, and she loved him—and it was the innocent love of children. For one day Morris surprised a Spanish word upon her lips; she knew not its meaning, uttered it as a memory of childhood. So he learned that she was Spanish, and he wondered much how she came to be here, among Dyaks.
Of that he was fated to learn soon enough, and terribly enough.
THE dirty little schooner slowly slipping in under the point of land was not the spick-and-span schooner of romance. The dirt clustering about her was no honest dirt; it was the squalid filth of careless men. Anyone half a mile to leeward could catch the stench of rotten copra, unboiled shell and rank bilge that emanated from her putrid hold. Even her canvas was patched and scarred and streaked with pitch.
Three men were visible on her littered, untidy deck. A Moro lay in the bows; another stood at the wheel, chewing betel and expectorating redly anywhere. By her rail stood an erect old man clad in scarlet silks, glittering with gold and gems, incrusted with dirt. From his chin jutted a small pointed gray beard. His rough upper lip showed a thin and bitterly voracious mouth. His nose, once a proudly jutting beak, now lay broken and askew. One eye was dead; the other was black and terrible beneath jutting gray brow. The whole face was thin, malicious, powerful. In his hand he held a stick of ebony.
Such was the schooner of Rais Hamed ben Yusuf, he who stood at the rail.
Slowly, under a falling breeze of sunrise, she rippled through the water, slipped imperceptibly under the lee of the promontory, and floated on. Rais Hamed searched the trees, the unbroken stretch of green jungle along the shore.
Nothing there appeared worth the search. Only trees and jungle, stretching away in unbroken curves, an occasional creek-mouth barbed and masked by the mangroves. No sign of man's presence appeared anywhere. No trail of smoke floated up. The monotony of this shore-line was unspeakable and terrifying.
Rais Hamed, as the schooner swung around to parallel the shore, came over beside the helmsman. His one eye sparkled venomously; an astonishing fury contorted his wrinkled face.
“It is gone!” he said. His voice was melodious, rich, soft as a woman's.
“W'Allah alim!” said the helmsman. “Allah alone knoweth! If it is gone, it is gone by God's will, and who are we to question Him, the Ineffable?”
Rais Hamed met this mechanical patter with a grunt. A positive man, this old raider and pirate of the islands, son of an Arab father and a Chinese mother.
“Iblis swallow you! Here is the place, although I have not seen it in four years. Yonder creek, ahead, leads to the long-houses. With the tide thus, there should be five fathom off the creek.”
“Yet it is gone, Rais,” repeated the helmsman.
“And may Allah blast me if I do not flay the taker of it!” swore the old Arab. “Ho, Kalil! Drop anchor.”
THE Moro up forward stirred himself negligently. He stooped above a small bower, idly laid on the deck. He picked up the bower and dropped it over the side. This display of prodigious strength caused him no effort, passed without comment. Slowly, her gray canvas flapping, the schooner swung around to the cable.
“Five fathom, Rais!” floated the soft voice of the Moro.
“A boat, six men, arms!” snapped Rais Hamed. He strode to the companionway and went below, the echo of his sweetly cadenced voice flinging back from the wall of trees.
The Moro went forward and called. To the deck came a number of yawning men, all brown or yellow men, but of mixed races, They had one thing in common: no man could become a member of Rais Hamed's crew unless he had at least two actual crimes to his credit.
This Moro was the mate. He was unusually large for a Moro, nearly naked, and his strength was tremendous. Kalil was his name, and he had a large share, almost a half-interest, men said, in this schooner and her proceeds of smuggling and piracy. In the old days this Kalil had been a famous blackbirder, but the Christians had stopped all that. He was older than he looked, this Moro. It was he who had originated the red skull which was known all through the islands as the symbol of Rais Hamed. If he obeyed the Arab, it was because the latter could navigate and was a very wily old man, worthy obedience.
Kalil picked four men to row the boat which was lowered from the protesting slings. In a socket at the bow of this boat, he stuck a short pole to which was affixed a tiny red skull. Then he turned to the men at the rail above, and issued orders.
“In two days we return. Wait here. We bring hard camphor and women. If any Christian boat comes, let yourself be searched, for there is nothing aboard—but send up a smoke-signal to us.”
Good sense in this last, since hard camphor means death—in the wrong hands. The Borneo Company allowed no infringement of their monopoly.
From the cabin came Rais Hamed, in one hand his ebony stick, in the other a duffel-bag which was filled with presents for the Dyaks, his friends. This he handed down very carefully, then got into the boat and seated himself on faded scarlet cushions in the stern, taking the tiller. Kalil took place in the bow. Rifles under the thwarts, close to hand but hidden, the four oarsmen dipped blades.
The boat darted into the creek-mouth and was gone from sight.
Almost instantly the sea was shut out and forgotten. From the surf-resounding turmoil of the coast, the boat entered upon peace—a narrow lane of water inclosed by jungle. This creek was one of many mouths of a river whose delta was all tangled mangrove swamp. After twenty minutes of hard pulling the creek widened out, and the boat was driving up against the sluggish current of a wide and yellow river.
From among the trees throbbed a sound. Hearing it, the men paused on their oars, their eyes going fearfully to the grim face of Rais Hamed. The sound came again, and again; a deep and booming clang! as though some brazen throat had yelled up at the heavens. It drifted away over the trees and was gone—three heavy notes, then a pause, then five more in succession,
“We have been recognized,” said Rais Hamed. “Forward, in the name of Allah!”
JIM MORRIS was not unwarned of how Fate was drawing in upon him. Two days before the booming gongs announced the coming of Rais Hamed, there slipped into the village a grinning Negrito, escorted by some Kapit Ai Dyaks. He was met with respect, and was given a room in the same long-house that Morris occupied. This Negrito, a genial and friendly scoundrel, heard with some astonishment the story of the white man. Then he came in and sat down by Morris, and offered the latter a cigaret.
“You speak Spanish, señor? Good! You are English?”
Morris felt like clasping the dark little native to his bosom, but refrained.
“American,” he responded, lighting the proffered cigaret. “Thanks!”
“English or American, what difference?” The Negrito waved his hand and chuckled. “Now tell me the truth, señor! How came you by that object, and what means it?”
His finger pointed to the red skull in the corner.
MORRIS told him. The two men were alone in the chamber, although behind the mat partitions other men were crowded, listening to the words they did not understand. Morris was astounded to see his friendly interrogator break into an irrepressible flood of laughter, as the tale of the red skull was unfolded. At length, wiping his eyes, the Negrito spoke.
“Hola, senor! Do you know what these men think? That you are a friend of Rais Hamed! That skull is his private signal, his trademark! It showed to close-searching eyes the channel by which this river and village might be gained. A lorcha or prau comes along the coast with its cargo. It sees that float. It turns into the creek, displaying the proper signal, and here at the village leaves its cargo. You understand? This village is a depot, a gathering place, for camphor and other smuggled goods! Rais Hamed has many such. Once or twice a year, perhaps, he sends a ship and takes away the stuff; this time he is to come in person—”
“Who the devil is Rais Hamed?” asked Morris, bewildered, yet half comprehending.
The Negrito puffed at his cigaret. “A pirate, a smuggler, a what you like! For many years he has been allied with these Sea Dyaks. He hates all Christians, and tortures them in strange ways aboard his schooner. I am sorry for you.”
“Why?” demanded Morris.
“Because I like Englishmen. One of them saved my life once. Therefore I am paying back the good turn by telling you all this.”
“Yes, but why do you feel sorry for me? Will not Rais Hamed rescue me?”
The Negrito's lips twitched. “Yes—only to torture you himself. He enjoys it. Besides, you removed his float and saved your head by means of the red skull. He will not forgive that fact. He is a cruel man, but Allah loves him, and he prospers. Look!”
From his breast the Negrito took a joint of bamboo, a foot long and three inches in diameter, sealed at each end with gum.
“One of these long-houses,” he said, “is crammed to bursting with hard camphor. It also contains many sacks of gold dust. And this tube”—he tapped the bamboo—“is filled with diamonds. To deal in these things unlawfully is death—but Rais Hamed deals in them and dies not. Allah favors him!”
“How the devil do you know so much?” asked Morris.
“Because I am Rais Hamed's agent in this district.” The Negrito grinned. “Come, I like you, señor! Let us eat dinner together.”
It was true that they liked each other. Morris found the brown man to be merry, brave, cheerful and upright. The Negrito, in turn, liked Morris and felt genuinely sorry for him. He could do nothing to save Morris—in fact he would do nothing, for he was devoted to Rais Hamed. But his complex personality was frank enough.
“You are helpless, señor. Make the best of it! You cannot run away.”
THAT afternoon Morris went up river to a little island with the golden girl. There on the island they pretended to fish, but tried to talk and exchanged the few words each had taught the other, and Morris knew that he loved this girl-woman. Also, he respected her and stood in reverence of her. Lucky for her that Morris was the straight, clean man he was, since her heart had no secrets from him. Isabel, he had named her, loving the name.
Although he could talk with her only in the language of love, he had talking and to spare that evening, for the Negrito had been discovering a few things and was waiting for him. Also, the brown man's smile had unexpectedly turned into an ominous scowl.
“Come with me and talk, señor,” said the Negrito after the evening meal.
Darkness had fallen. Together the two men went up the notched log that brought them to the tanju or veranda of their long-house. In this and the other houses Dyaks were squatted about the fireplaces, over which wood and shrunken heads dried in the smoke; the many bilik or sleeping apartments in each house were being made ready for the night. The unmarried girls, Isabel among them, had gone up above into the big lofts where paddy was stored.
The two men sat on the veranda, the floor of ironwood poles swaying a little under them as men and women moved about inside. Then the Negrito opened up.
“I hear that you are the lover of the Spanish girl, señor. Is it true?”
“If we can get away safely, I hope to marry her,” said Morris, frankly enough.
The other man sighed, laughed under his breath, sighed again.
“I am sorry for you, but I must do what is my duty,” he said thoughfully. “Listen! Four years ago Rais Hamed was at this place. He deals much in flesh, that man. He brought with him a young white girl, a Spanish girl whom he had stolen somewhere. He had found her in the north, among other people who had stolen her as a child. Well! He gave her to these Dyaks and told them to rear her to womanhood, that in four years he would come again for her. She is his slave—”
From Morris broke an astounded, incredulous oath.
“Nay, señor, doubt me not!” said the Negrito. “Tomorrow or the next day Rais Hamed comes. He will take her. He will slay you. You understand? I am very sorry for you, because I like you; but I must do my duty—”
Before Morris knew what was happening, the Negrito made a signal. Out of the darkness Morris felt naked shapes hurtle upon him. In the twinkling of an eye he was seized and bound with strong cords.
“I am sorry for you,” repeated the Negrito, regretfully. “But my duty, you understand—”
IT was early afternoon when Rais Hamed arrived at the village, met and escorted by a number of boats.
A great feast had been made ready, pig and fowl and game and arrack; his reception was regal. And in his faded scarlet silks, with Kalil looming at his shoulder, his was a proud and regal and barbaric figure. His men scattered. He, with Kalil, took position beneath a sunshade of mats out in the open. The wise old men of the Dyaks gathered around him, the warriors squatted in a semicircle, the women hastened the feast. And the one eye of the old Arab roved ceaselessly, cruelly, proudly.
Gifts were exchanged. The Negrito came forward, swaggering, greeted Rais Hamed in Arab fashion, squatted down and lighted a cigaret. He made report, and the Dyaks confirmed this report, pointing to the store-house. Rais Hamed turned to Kalil.
“Go and inspect the goods.”
Kalil departed, accompanied by certain of the Dyaks. The Negrito agent stayed where he was. When the mate was gone, the agent produced his bamboo tube and handed it to Rais Hamed.
“Here, Rais, beloved of Allah, are certain things for thy hand alone. Also, there are certain sacks of gold—”
The old Arab clutched at the bamboo and thrust it out of sight.
“The gold goes into the general cargo,” he said. “You have done well, friend! Trading-goods shall be landed to settle our accounts. Now, there is another matter—”
“Wait!” The Negrito spoke in bastard Arabic, which the Dyaks did not understand. “I have another matter to lay before you—”
HE spoke swiftly, told of Morris and of how the latter had come here, told of the girl and of what he had himself done. The gray features of the old Arab became hard and stony; his black eye glittered with rage and a fury of delight. Presently he turned to the old men and addressed them.
“Four years ago I left a girl with you to be raised. I have come to take her. Let me be shown how you have conducted this matter!”
Two of the old men made haste to obey. They brought Isabel, her golden body covered with a sarong of rich golden silk, and she stood facing Rais Hamed.
“Here is thy master, girl,” they said to her.
At this instant Kalil returned. He stopped short at sight of the girl, stared at her, his eyes all ablaze with her beauty. Then, panting, he hurried to the side of Rais Hamed.
“The goods are correct, Rais!” he said rapidly. “In the name of Allah, speak a word with me concerning this girl!”
Rais Hamed smiled thinly, and waved his hand to the Dyaks.
“Take her away and hold her ready to accompany me. Now, Kalil!”
The Moro drew himself up. Seldom did he assert himself before this Arab, but now he spoke eye to eye, man to man.
“Rais Hamed, well I know that not for yourself do you desire this woman, since you deal with women only for the sake of gain. I have seen her, and I desire her. Sell her to me.”
The old Arab fondled his jutting gray beard.
“I design her for the harem of the sultan at Sibuko,” he said slowly. “I have promised her to the sultan. The price is arranged. By the names of God, who am I to go back upon my word?”
“By the ninety-and-nine ineffable names of Allah,” spoke out Kalil, a kindling flame in his lowering eyes, “who am I to be denied?”
“You are my mate,” said Rais Hamed, with a cackling laugh.
“I am your pardner also. Look, now! I will offer you the price that the sultan would pay. Let it be withdrawn from our accounts. Besides, one of these Dyaks told me there was a white man here, who has looked on the girl with eyes of love. That will be a fine tale to reach the ears of the sultan, after you have sold the girl to him!”
“You threaten me?” asked the musical voice of the old Arab.
“By Allah, I threaten you!” cried the Moro passionately. “Look to it!”
“I do not yield to threats, Kalil.”
“Then yield to friendship.”
Rais Hamed laughed and held out his hand.
“Done! The girl is yours. The sale shall be consummated after we return to the schooner. Until then, hands off! Also, we take the white man with us. He goes with the girl—I give him to you. Hands off, however, until we have settled matters with these Dyaks!”
The eyes of the Moro flashed.
A little later the Negrito came to Jim Morris, who lay bound hand and foot in a corner of a long-house, and told him of all these things.
“I am sorry for you, señor,” he concluded with a sigh, “for I like you. They will start back sometime tonight, after the feast. I shall not see you again. Farewell!”
Morris, perceiving that the man was quite sincere in his words, could not restrain a laugh at the oddness of it all.
IN the dawn-darkness Rais Hamed returned to the schooner, whose triangle of red riding-lights signaled that all was clear. With him came a string of Dyak boats, bearing the hard camphor and other things—half a dozen captive girls among them.
Morris was brought to the deck, and the cords were cut from his numbed wrists and ankles. The cords were replaced by manacles. He was flung to the deck, and the manacles were made fast to ringbolts in the decks, so that he lay spread-eagled, looking up at the sky.
The girls were locked below in a cabin. The cargo was stowed away swiftly in the hold. Rais Hamed and Kalil and the Negrito went to the Arab's cabin, lighted by a red lantern slung inside a skull; certain of the Dyaks went with them, and there was much casting up of accounts, which lasted well into the morning. Then, with goods and presents aboard, the Dyaks and the Negrito agent departed; the schooner's bower was dragged up, and under a listless land-breeze she headed slowly out to sea.
Five of her crew. disappeared below. The other five, lounging about the deck, sampled arrack that had come aboard and regarded the manacled white man with interest. Rais Hamed beckoned his mate, and both went below to the cabin.
SEATED across the table from each other, they bargained for half an hour, while Kalil steadily emptied the rum-bottle at his elbow. Rais Hamed, who touched no liquor as became his faith, craftily delayed matters until the keen wit of the Moro was numbed by the rum; then he proceeded to cheat his pardner deftly and accurately. He drew up a bill of sale which Kalil signed with stumbling fingers. Then:
“Bring the girl here,” said Rais Hamed, plucking at his beard. “I will speak to her.”
Kalil grinned and departed, his naked brown torso gleaming with sweat, for it was very hot here in the cabin, and he had drunk deeply. Presently he came back, dragging by one wrist the shrinking Isabel. He thrust her forward, facing Rais Hamed, and waited.
The golden girl drew herself up. She knew why she had been brought aboard, knew what fate awaited her, and had learned also what fate awaited Morris, chained to the deck above. Traces of tears marred her face. Under the golden silk, her bosom rose and fell with swift breaths; her starry eyes blazed with passionate grief and anger.
“My child,” said the old Arab, in the Dyak tongue that she understood, “I have been as a father to you. I have paid the Dyaks well to care for you. Among them you have been as a goddess, a cherished and reverenced guest. Now I shall hand you over to this man yonder, whose name is Kalil. He is a great man, a wealthy man, and you shall be the light of his harem and make him happy. Forget that white man of yours, who will soon be dead—”
“Ai, you are a sea-devil!” broke out the girl hotly. She gave Kalil one contemptuous, fiery look. “And this—this wood-devil—thinks to marry me! He will not.”
“Then,” said Rais Hamed gently, musically, “he will burn your white man with hot irons. He will make him die very slowly. I have given your white man to Kalil.”
HER eyes went from one to the other, in questioning, in appeal, in terror. She read only desire and cruelty in the two faces. A pallor crept into her cheeks.
“No, no!” she said slowly. “Spare him—you must spare him—”
Rais Hamed chuckled. “I have given him to Kalil.”
Swiftly, impulsively, the girl turned to the Moro. “Spare him!” she cried, fright in her voice and eyes. “You are devils—do not torture him! Let him go free!”
Kalil grinned into her eyes. “Well, girl? You will love me a little? You will not call me a devil?”
She flinched before his bestial look, before the frank hunger of his mien. Still paler became her face; her tortured eyes closed for an instant, then opened.
“Yes,” she said, with a weakly assenting gesture.
“Bah!” observed Rais Hamed. “By the prophet, Kalil, I was beginning to regret my bargain—but she has no spirit after all. Why spare the Christian? Break her to your will.”
Kalil leaned forward, poured himself another drink, gulped it.
“Not so,” he said, and wiped his lips. “Better willing than unwilling, Rais! I shall let the man go. She will love me.”
“Will you throw him overboard, then?” asked Rais Hamid with a cynical smile.
“I will give him a boat and let him go as he came.”
“Who will pay me for my boat?”
“I will pay, by Allah!”
“The men will not let him go. They expect amusement.”
“I will give them rum,” and Kalil grinned, “and more arrack.”
“But who will pay for this liquor?”
“I, by Allah!” shouted the Moro in sudden anger. “Am I a beggar?”
Rais Hamed shrugged, drew brush and ink toward him across the table. “Give me the bill of sale. I will add to it the price of the boat and the liquor.”
For a little the two men bargained further, Rais Hamed cunningly cheating his pardner and making much gain. Then they came to terms. The girl watched, quivering, trembling.
“Set down the sums,” said Kalil. “I will go and have the boat lowered and pass out the arrack.”
He turned and left the cabin.
Rais Hamed, brush in hand, paused and looked up at the girl, his one eye glowing. Then he reached out a hand and poured rum into the glass before him. He pushed it over the table.
“Drink, girl! So you will go happily to your husband.”
The girl's fingers closed on the glass, lifted it. Suddenly, swift as the flirt of a snake across a jungled glade, she moved her hand. The rum leaped into the one glittering eye of Rais Hamed, spread across his face. Before he could move, the girl caught the bottle and brought it crashing against his head.
Rais Hamed fell forward across the table and lay quiet.
Terrified, desperate, Isabel stood staring down at him. He groaned, then lay quiet once more. She lifted the bottle as though to strike again, but could not. With a shudder, she dropped it on the table and leaned forward.
Swiftly she searched the unconscious man. Her hand found an illang, a long, curved blade of finest Malay steel, inlaid with gold; she found a tube of bamboo, which puzzled her; she found a pistol, of whose use she was ignorant. Taking the knife and the bamboo, which was heavy and sealed at each end, she darted from the cabin, slamming the door behind her. The catch of the door slipped into place. It could only be opened from the inside.
JIM MORRIS sat up, staring in wonder, and rubbing at his skinned wrists. Why he had been released he had no idea. The mate had stooped, unlocked the shackles and gone on. Not a word had been spoken to him.
The breeze had freshened. The land was fast falling away into a purple line on the western horizon. The schooner, her sails carelessly tended, was beginning to heel sharply over, and little by little Morris slid down the inclined deck as he rubbed his wrists. The helmsman had slipped a loop over the wheel and was seated, drinking from a pottery wine-jar.
Afar on the southeastern rim of the ocean was a tiny smudge of smoke, as yet unseen by any. This tiny smudge caught the eye of Jim Morris alone. He did not guess, however, that it was a signpost of Fate, or luck, or Providence.
He wondered that he was unguarded, that the Moro mate had called the watch aft. They were clustered there at the stern, and Morris perceived that they were getting into the water a boat that had lain chocked up by the stern rail. One of the men ran forward to the galley, pausing to snatch a drink from a bottle of squareface, and reappeared soon with a bag of biscuit and a breaker of water in his arms. He carried these aft. They were got into the boat. The mate and the four men were getting the little craft into the water safely.
MORRIS, staring aft, saw the head of Isabel emerge from the companionway, saw her glance quickly about, saw her look at him. Then, with a leap, she gained the deck and came running toward him, unseen by any others. She waved her arm, and Morris saw the glitter of a knife. An instant later she ducked under the starboard counter boat and was hidden. Along the deck, where she had flung it, slithered the curved knife, stopping almost at the feet of Morris. He swiftly bent over, picked it up, straightened himself.
“By gad!” His eyes flashed. He carefully stowed the knife under his waistband. “There'll be a fighting chance—”
The boat was in the water, trailing astern. The mate came forward, flung Morris a black scowl, and turned down the companionway. The four men, drinking from bottles, grinning, jesting, surrounded Morris, fingering their knives. Then, after a moment, one of them uttered a cry and pointed to the shagreen handle of the knife protruding from his waistband.
From below, at this instant, came a bellow of rage—a wild and furious roar of anger. Not knowing what was going on below, yet swift to play the golden girl's game, Morris drove out with his knee, caught the man in front of him, and snapped home his fist as the brown man doubled up in agony. One was gone.
DOWN at the door of the cabin Kalil was pounding, bellowing, hurling himself furiously. He thought that Rais Hamed had locked him out, had locked Isabel in. He began to smash down the door.
The three natives closed in upon Morris, who drew his knife and dropped the first of them with a desperate stab. He was not used to such work, however—the knife went with the man, and he was left weaponless. The other two struck at him, struck keenly and surely. A knife streaked crimson across his naked chest, but he avoided the points and his fist sent one man staggering.
Before that one man could recover, a golden flash leaped from beneath the starboard boat and across the man's skull fell the heavy bamboo joint. That man lay quiet.
Isabel straightened up, threw herself forward to aid Morris. The helmsman was coming now, staggering and reeling, a flame-bladed kris in his hand. Then, deftly, Morris tripped the last of the four, caught him with a smash under the ear as he fell, laid him out. Isabel whirled on the helmsman—but he, with a yell of terror, turned and scrambled forward.
“Quick, girl!” Morris was at her side, caught her arm, laughing as he met her eyes. 'Come quick—the boat!”
She fathomed his gesture if not his words, and turned. Side by side they ran aft, and when she saw the boat trailing there, she understood. Morris stooped and drew in the line until the boat was under the rail.
“Jump!”
A laugh broke from her lips. Her hand touched his cheek in caress—then, with a leap, she was in the boat below, asprawl across the thwarts. Morris reached to cast loose the line, when a shadow falling on the deck made him whirl.
Over him stood Kalil the mate, his brown features a mask of fury incarnate.
Swift as light, Morris leaped, struck, drove his fist fair and square to the point of the jaw. Kalil rocked to the blow, but only uttered a bellowing laugh and then caught Morris in his arms.
At the first instant of that grip, Jim Morris knew that he was a doomed man unless he broke free of it. Swift work, swift work—or death in that grip!
He went utterly and completely limp, sagged down with all his weight. His head drooped against the breast of the Moro, slimy with cocoanut-oil; a grunt of exultation burst from Kalil. Then the body of Morris stiffened. His head snapped up—snapped up under the brown jaw. His arms locked about the brown, massive thighs, his fingers clenched in upon the folds of the sirat or loin-cloth.
The head of Kalil jerked suddenly up and back. A scream burst from his lips. He threw up his hands to release that neck-breaking grip—and Morris was free, out of his grasp. One leap, and Morris had loosened the line about the rail, let the boat and the crouching wide-eyed girl fall behind.
Then, turning, he drove in at Kalil. The Moro was fumbling for a knife, but had no chance to use it. The fist of Morris smashed in one staggering, convulsing blow square in the throat, a deadly blow. The mate was knocked backward, fell against the rail, leaned over it with his chin in the air.
Morris drove home on that chin with all his weight.
The brown body slid farther over the rail, let go, went hurtling down into the white foam below. A chorus of mad yells, a flash of leaping figures, and Morris knew that the watch below was at hand. A knife sang past his ear. He uttered one ringing laugh, then hurdled the rail and went feet first into the depths.
AS long as he might, he stayed under. When he emerged, gasping, the schooner was three hundred yards distant. No sign of Kalil appeared on the surface of the crested rollers. Morris struck out for the boat where the figure of the golden girl awaited him.
Two minutes afterward she drew him aboard. Then, as he came to his feet, she clutched his arm, uttered a cry, pointed.
Morris looked at the schooner, and panted a low curse of desperation. She was coming about, her streaked gray canvas fluttering in the breeze. Men were tailing on her lines. Beside her wheel stood an erect, tall figure whose scarlet silks matched the scarlet that bedewed one side of his gray head.
“Rais Hamed!” said Morris. “That devil has got us after all—”
But he had forgotten the signpost of luck, or chance, or—Providence.
RAIS HAMED, blood streaking his gray hairs, staggered to the deck almost as Kalil went over the rail.
At the yell that burst from his lips, his six men stood transfixed. He was a figure of wild, unleashed fury. His glittering eye took in everything—the fallen men, the boat astern, all!
An order, followed by a stream of curses, broke from his lips. The men rushed to the wheel, to the lines; the schooner came up into the wind and began to come around on her heel, her canvas flapping. With another oath Rais Hamed strode to the wheel, dashed the helmsman away, took the spokes himself.
Then, as he looked over his shoulder at the boat, his one glittering eye caught that distant smudge of smoke on the horizon. And the smudge was growing fast!
The old Arab stood paralyzed for one long instant. He knew only too well what that smudge signified; this was no ship-lane of commerce, and under that smudge was a patrol-boat. If he delayed five minutes longer, if he even delayed to run down that boat tossing on the waves, he was lost, and his schooner with him. That hard camphor down below was damning.
Even so, he hesitated, with fury hot in his soul. But his men, too, now saw that smudge on the skyline. They cried out. Rais Hamed swiftly spun the wheel, shouted an order; the men rushed to the lines; the schooner paid off—and Rais Hamed let her wear into the wind. She heeled over; foam ran along her counter; into the hand of the helmsman the old Arab put the spokes, with an order to keep her so.
Some men believe in chance. Some believe in themselves, some in blind luck. But Rais Hamed, as he stood at his stern rail and looked back across the tumbling waters to the speck that was a boat, uttered one fatalistic phrase that showed the whole man.
“W'Allah alim!” he said, and shrugged. “God knows best!”
Had he realized that the bamboo tube of diamonds had gone with the golden girl, however, his pious utterance might have been a trifle more vivid.
   MR. BEDFORD-JONES has written for our next issue one of his most brilliant stories—a novelette of romance and adventure in the East Indies that has a thrill on every page. Watch for “Fifty Thousand in Gold” in the next—the February—issue of The Blue Book Magazine.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1949, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 75 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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