VANDERDECKEN

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 522, 27 November 1928, Page 5

VANDERDECKEN

By

H. DE VERE STACPOOLE.

CHAPTER IV (Continued) “Why not go in thb whale boat,” asked Tyrebuck. “What you want taking the ‘Wear Jack’ along—lor fun?” "It's part of my plan to have a yacht,” replied the other, “and she looks like a yacht.—Oh, she’s not so bad—it was only my joke. I reckon she'll hold together as long as we "ant her; the sticks look sound enough.” “Well, she mayn't be as bad as she’s painted,” agreed Tyrebuck. “I’ve been too busy to bother with her. I bought her as old junk thinking to do a deal and had her dandied up by Michelson and advertised her. Her lines are lovely, there’s no depving that. You remember last fall I took you down with Cookson to look at her and he went about prodding her with a knife. He offered four thousand for her.” “Oh, did he, did he?” said Hank. “Well, he was secretary of the Brookland Creek Yacht Club and they wanted her for a floating annexe, and when I refused he got impudent, and said the members wouldn’t have anything to do with the deal as they weren't a suicide club. That joke got about.” “I heard it,” said Hank. “And it crabbed her, then all the smarties got busy guying her and me, and I got a letter from a chap calling himself Charon and offering ten dollars for her as a houseboat on the Styx; and so it went on till the chaps forgot her, but it has dished any chance of a deal. Mention her to any yachtsman and all those damned old iokes flutter up like moths. It’s like * woman's reputation; once it’s damaged, there's no use in shaking it out of the window and putting new buttons on it —there’s no buyers.” Hank agreed. “Well, what’s your terms?” said he at last. “Ten thousand dollars,” said Tyrebuck. “Is she insured?” "She's insured for 10,000 dollars. I Pushed her through with the insurance agents that do mv steamboat work.” “But. I don't want to buy her. I want to rent her.” "Well, I can’t rent boats, not even l ? >ou, Hank, it's against my priny*Ptes. Why, if 1 were to rent the old « ear Jack’ and the fact got round I'd be guyed out of 'Frisco. Can't you hear them at the club asking me how the longshore business was doing and what price the hire of canoes. No, sir, f ve had enough of the joke book business over that damned sieve. There she sticks till I sell her, aud the price is 10,000, not a cent under.” George du Cane felt the lifting of a "eight from his mind. The deal was evidently off. He had only to Put his hand in his pocket, so to say, end fetch out the ten thosuand, but the idea of a cruise in the “Wear lack" had begun to fill his mind with frank and honest alarm; besides, he knew that Hank would accept no out»'de flnanciai help or interference. This was his show to be engineered and run by himself. Feeling safe, he indulged in a little show off. That’s a pity,” said he. 'T shouldn t

have minded risking it; besides, we’d have the whale boat, but I suppose it can’t be helped.” He spoke without knowledge of the intricacy and subtlety of the rat trap inventor’s mental works. “I’ve got it,” said Hank. “You can loan her to me.” Tyrebuck, who seemed suddenly to remember that he had been smoking an unlit cigar all this time, was in the act of striking a match. He lit the cigar, blew a cloud of smoke, and placed the dead match carefully on a tray by the Billikin on his desk. Then he said: “Well. I’m damned, Hank, if you don’t take the cake. You do, indeed, you do, indeed; you take the cake with the cherry top-knot. You come here to me in the temple, so to say. of business propositions ” “That’s what I’m bringing you, said Hank. “A business proposition on the lioof, warranted sound, free from scab —it’s a Buffalo.” “Trot out your Buffalo,” said Tyrebuck. „ TT . “Well, it’s this way, said Hank. “You lend me the ‘Wear Jack’; if she busts up and never comes back, you get your insurance, don’t you? If we bring her back with the Dutchman on

board, she’s a hero and you have the laugh over the whole waterside. Even if we don’t collar the Dutchman and come back, she’ll have proved herself seaworthy, and I’ll give her a certilicate all round the town that’ll sell her for you in two hours. ’ “Gosh!” groaned Tyrebuck, “why didn’t I insure her for twenty thousand?” He wallowed in thought for a moment, then he said: “Hank. "Yep?” “D'you want a partnership in a shipping business?” “Nope.” “Well, if you do, I’ll take you on. I will sure. Yes, you tan have a loan of her. God help the Dutchman if you’re after him. Take her down south, take her to blazes, take her anywhere you like. Aud now get out of my office, for I’m busy. One moment —here’s my card. There's a watchman on board her. Show him this and he'll let you go over her, and I’ll send you a letter to-night confirming the loan.” Outside, Hank took George s arm. “Say, bud, you’re the right sort.” “How so?” asked George. •T don't believe that there’s another man in Frisco that would have gone ill with me on this, not on that specification, anyhow. D’you know the ’Wear Jack’ was built in ’67’” "What do you mean by ’67?” “Three years before the first German-French war. It’s on the shipwright’s plate on the after gratings, ■Duncan Matheson, 1867,” that her’s birth certificate. One of the first yacht-building firms to start in Frisco.” George said nothing, but was thinking a lot. “I had it in my mind that he’d have rented her,” went on Hank. “It’s lucky he shied at that idea, for I hadn’t thought of the whale boat. Why, between the whaleboat and pro\isions

and crew, it’ll take nearly all that 5,000 dollars.” “You wouldn’t care to take a bigger boat?” said George. “I’ll finance the business, or go shares.” “Oh, she’s big enough,” said Hank, “and this is my show. I’m doing it off my own bat, else I’d have no interest in it. I'm offly lucky to have got you, for you’re a millionaire, aren’t you, bud, and you won’t want a hand in the profits, besides, being the only man in Frisco that’d take the risks for the fun of the thing.” “I believe I am,” said George, unenthusiastically. CHAPTER V. —JAKE. The waterfront of San Francisco is unique. The long wharves vibrating to the thunder of trade show, ships from all corners of the world; ships from China and the Islands, from Japan, from Africa, from India; tall Cape Horners held to the wharves with wire mooring lines lie cleaning their bilges or lining their holds for grain cargoes with ships for Durban, ships for Cork, steamers for Seattle and Northern ports. Beyond lies the hay, blue or wind-beaten grey, busy with a shipping life of its own, and Oakland, six miles across the water, for a sister port. Beyond the bay the hills that have seen the desolation before the first Spaniards broke the ground or the keel of the first sandalwood trader the waters of the Golden Gate. Here, on the wharves to-day, it takes little imagination to see the ships that have vanished and the traders that are gone. The South Sea whaleman with stump top gallant masts and boats slung out on wooden davits, the Island schooner of the old days when the “Leonora” was a living ship, and before copra was handled by the companies. George and his companion struck the waterfront where a big “turret boat” of the Clan line was moored, the Lascars huddled round her foc’sle engaged in preparing fish for a curry. “That’s the canal,” said Hank. “She’s come through from ’Urope with a cargo and now she’s loading up for Bombay or somewhere, looks like as if she’d been built by some chap that’d gone bug-house, don't she —she’s built like that to save dues going through the Suez Canal. Wonder what the shipping companies will be up to in the way of diddling the Panama. I tell you. Bud, there’s not a hair’s difference between humans and rats for tricks and smart ways.” They passed along, reaching an old decayed bit of wharf that had somehow withstood change and reconstruction. It is now little more than a landing stage, but in the old days, under the name of Rafferty’s wharf, it had a broad front; whalers used to come alongside to discharge and clean up, and here Bones’s old sailor’s lodging-house, half tavern, used to take unfortunates in and do for them. There was a trap door from Bones's back parlour to the water helow, where boats could come in between the piles and slip off with long-haired sailor men blind with dope. Then it became respectable and changed its name of Sullivan’s. Alongside this stage lay the Wear Jack, a sixty-ton schooner, fifty feet

long. The*-watchman happened to be on deck, a thin man greatly gone to decay, dressed in a brown sweater and wearing an old fur cap. He was seated on the combing of the skylight, smoking. “Hullo,” said Hank. “That you, Jake?” The fellow below cocked an eye up and evidently recognised the other, but he didn’t move “I’m coming aboard to overhaul her,” said Hank. “I’ve just seen Air. Tyrebuck, here’s his card.” “Well, I’m not preventin’ you,” said Jake. Hank came down the ladder, followed by George. The deck of the Wear Jack ran flush fore and aft. Neglect sat there

with dirt and tobacco juice. Old ends of rope lay about and spars and main blocks that had seen a better day, and bits of newspaper, and a bucket with potato peelings in it. Forward, with the keel to the sky, lay an old broken dinghy that might have come out of the ark, and a flannel jumper aired itself on the port rail. No wonder that prospective buyers sniffed and went off.

The soft job man on the cabin skylight looked at the newcomers. “Where's your card?’’ said he. Hank presented the card. “Now, then,” said Hank, “if you’re not stuck to that skylight with cobbler’s wax. hoist yourself and get busy. I'm going right all over her, cabin first. Come along.” He led the way down. The saloon of the Wear Jack had plenty of head room, six feet or so: there were bunks on either side, and a cabin aft shut off by a bird’s eye maple door. The upholstering was in crimson; crimson plush, and the table was of mahogany. Everything was of the best and little the worse for wear. But over everything was the gloom of the murdered sunlight filtering in through the filthy skylight and the grimy portholes. Hank opened the door of the after cabin. “Pretty musty, ain’t it?’ said Jake. “I kyan’t get it right no how. You could grow mushrooms on that bunk I with the damp, though where it comes i from, search me; ain’t sea damp, it’s damp that seems to have got in the wood. The wood sweats when the weather’s a bit warm; smells like an old cheese.” “Well, X ain’t buying a scent factory,” said Hank. “Oh, buyln’ her, are you?” said Jake, “buyin’ her.” He said nothing more, but followed as Hank led the way out of the saloon. They inspected the lavatory and bath, the galley, and then they came to the auxiliary en-. gines, for the W’ear Jack boasted an auxiliai'y engine, a neat little Kelvin paraffin engine in a canvas jacket. “Does the engine run?” asked Hank of the soft job man. “Run,” said Jake. “Well, the last time I heard of it runnin’, it run off its bed plates. That’s the yarn I got from one of the chaps that were in her on her last cruise—but maybe it’s a lie.” “Now look here,” said Hank, “you deal straight with me and I’ll deal straight with you to the tune of five dollars. I don’t want to buy the old junk. Is there anything wrong with this ship?” He nudged George as he spoke. “Well,” said Jake, “I oughtn’t to be talking, I s’pose, I’m put here to show her to parties, but I haven’t swore to say nothing; anything wrong with her? Why, she’s all wrong, the sticks are carrots and the plankin’s, mush, run that there injin and you’ll, shake her to pieces, get her In a beam sea and she’ll strain her heart open, but mind you, she’s fast, her lines are good, but they’re just lines held together by a lick of paint.” Hank was down on his knees testing the planking to which the bed plates were fixed with his knife. Then he rose up and led the way on deck. They examined the foc’sle. Jt had accommodation for six. Coming out of the foc’sle, Hank began a cruise of his own, poking here and there. Then he dived down below again. When he came on deck he handed Jake the five dollars for his information, and they left the ship. He took George’s arm as they went along the wharf. “Remember,” said he, “what I told you to-day about the Wear Jack being an optical illusion?” “Yes, and you seem to have been pretty right.”

“Oh, was I? Weil, way bach in my head I was thinking different, and I only know that now. I can’t explain my headpiece, except by saying it goes by instinct. When I saw Jake the other day he must have climbed right down into my mind and sat there ever since explaining things without my knowing, otherwise I’m doubtful if I’d have been so keen on Tvrebjiek letting me have the old Jack. Not that I mind risking my life, but there it is. I wouldn’t have been as keen and maybe wouldn’t have pushed the deal through. It’s the biggest deal I’ve ever made.” “How’s that?” “Why, Bud, can’t you see what’s wrong with the schooner?” “No.” “Jake—the schooner’s as sound as I am. She’s not as young as she used to be, but she’s one of the old navy that was built to wear. I’ve examined her. You remember my telling you that rats couldn't beat humans in tricks? Well, it was just beginning to hit me then that maybe that raffle and dirt on her deck and all the yarns I’d heard about her were put out by Jake.” “Why?” “Why, to keep his job. He don’t want her sold. She’s his job. Besides, he’s been collecting five dollars a time, and maybe more, from every mug of a buyer he’s given a ‘straight tip’ about her. That's human nature. He wouldn’t .have got a cent for praising her.” “Good Lord! What a scoundrel! Why didn't you tell him straight out

instead of handing him that money? “Not me,” said Hank. “Have him maybe sink her at her moorings tonight, or play some dirty trick. Tomorrow with Tyrebuck’s letter in my hand it will be different. But only for him, I wouldn’t have got her for nix.” “Only for yourself, you mean," said George. “Well, maybe,” said Hank. CHAPTER VI.—“JOB BARRETT.” The du Cane house on Pacific Avenue was—is, in fact —a monstrous affair, at least viewed as the residence of a single man. Old Harley’s tastes were big and florid and he had entertained on a large scale; at his death George would have sold or let the place, but something held him, maybe Harley’s ghost for the old man’s personality was so strong that it. had imprinted itself everywhere so that to sell or let the place would, so George felt, have been equivalent almost to selling or letting the old man himself. George had closed a lot of the rooms, cutting down the servants to four or five in number, reserving for himself only a sitting-room and a bed, dressing and bathroom. This morning, the morning after the Jake business, he was awakened by a knock at the door and the entrance of his valet Farintosh. He had picked up Farintosh in England as a sort of curio. He had been his valet ai the Carlton Hotel. Farintosh’s father had been own man to the Marquis of

Bristol, his grandfather butler to the Duke of Hamilton, and his sister in service at Sandringham Palace. He had small side whiskers. Farintosh having closed the door cautiously, announced that a gentleman of the name of Fisher had called to see George, and was waiting in the sitting-room. “What's the time?” asked George. . “Half-past seven, sir.” George lay back with a groan. "Show him right in here,” said he. George on parting from Hank the day before had dined with some friends at the Palatial. Released from the hypnotism of the Town Lot Speculator, he had begun to cool ever so slightly over Cne vanderdecken business. Awakened aii hour before his usual time to the ordinary facts of life his feet were frankly cold. Shultz, the man he had dined with at the Palatial, was going off to the Adirondacks on a shooting expedition, and had asked him to join, there would be plenty of sport—yet he had to refuse. But there was something more than that. Farintosh, the absolutely sane and correct Farintosh, acted as an underscore to the whole of this business. Farintosh, whose lips rarely said more than “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir.” was voiceful in all sorts of subtle ways, as, for instance, when he had announced a “gentleman of the name of Fisher.” Entered Hank, suddenly, backed by Farintosh. who closed the door on *he pair. (To be continued)