The Cruise of the Dry Dock | Page 9

proved
fatal.
Just then the Englishman entered the cabin silently. He lighted the
bracket lamp quietly and looked about to satisfy himself that his mate
was asleep. Later Madden heard him open his big kit bag and take
something out. A moment after, the odor of alcohol scented the little
cabin.
Leonard lifted his head and saw the fellow under the lamp, just lifting
the silver cap to his lips. A disagreeable smile moulded the long face,

wrinkled the nostrils and slid away under the choppy blond mustache.
The strong light from the overhead lamp brought out an almost sinister
countenance.
The thought that such a man had probably saved his life filled Madden
with a kind of repulsion. He turned in his bunk with a little disgusted
grunt.
Caradoc dropped the little cap and came to the bunk.
"Side hurt, old man?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes--no--nothing the matter."
"Oh, maybe you don't like this odor--forgot you didn't drink." He
stepped quickly to the kit bag, replaced the bottle and cap inside and
closed it. Like many alcohol users he labored under the delusion that
alcohol was not offensive on his breath.
"Nervous shock you received seemed to upset you more than the
punch," he diagnosed in a concerned voice. "You Americans are a
high-strung nation." He paused a moment philosophically. "I daresay
you're right about not drinking spirits. With your nervous organism, it
would set you on fire. But our foggy English climate and stodgy people
call for it. Sets our pulses going. A thought just here--Climate and
Alcoholism. Not a bad subject for a scientific investigation, is it?"
Madden grunted.
"I'll blow out the light unless you'll have me rub some more of that
villainous stuff on your ribs?"
The patient declined this.
"Need water or medicine during the night throw your boots at me--I'm
hard to wake,"
Then he puffed out the light.

[Illustration: Out There Lay Adventure, Mystery--More Than Either
Dreamed.]
CHAPTER III
THE LAST OF THE VULCAN
A temporary rudder had been installed on the unwieldy dry dock, and
each twenty-four hours Mate Malone detailed seven men to stand
watch, which gave the regulation dog watch, although there was no
need of it with a double complement of men. Thanks to his bruised ribs,
the American had thus far escaped duty at the wheel. About a week
after the pilchard incident, he reported ready for this service, when a
twist of circumstance rendered it unnecessary.
A long stretch of fair weather had been enjoyed by the dock painters on
a steadily dropping barometer. On this particular day a cold puffy wind
developed out of the northeast, bringing with it a rack of clouds and
spreading a choppy sea below.
From where Madden painted on the corner of the dock, he had a good
view of these chasing waves that rose a moment in the gray seascape,
nodded a white cap, then dropped back into the waste of water.
"Wonder if a storm would affect this old box much?" he queried of
Caradoc.
"Probably have a chance to see," opined Smith, looking out with a
speculative eye. "By the by, what's that?"
Caradoc pointed toward the Vulcan, which already exhibited the
motion of the rollers.
Madden looked. A sailor stood on the tug's round stern waving two
flags toward the dock.
The American arose from his work, funneled his hands before his lips
and called to the man, but the spitting wind whisked away his words,

and the sailor went on with his flag.
Madden regarded it attentively a few moments. "He's
wig-wagging--wants to speak to the mate. I'll go for him." He trotted
aft.
Leonard found the officer in his cabin and told his mission. The mate
arose at once and came out with the lad. "Don't know w'ot 'e wants, do
you?" he inquired.
"I only spelled his message till I found he wanted you."
"Huh--understand flag signals, do ye?" grunted Malone, shifting his
inflamed eyes to Madden's face.
"Learned it in my engineering course," explained the lad.
The two passed on to the bow, when the sailor on the tug starting
waving once more. Mate Malone watched the man until he had finished
spelling out the message, then he turned to Leonard and asked:
"Know w'ot 'e said?"
"Parker's sick and they need you," translated the American.
"Good," grinned the mate with more fellowship than he had ever shown
before. "Now, lookee here, young chap. They're going to send a cutter
for me to come and take Parker's place. You strike me as a decent sort,
so I'll leave you in my berth till I get back. You won't have nothin' to do
hexcept tell off th' watches an' keep th' boys paintin'. Softer'n your
fo'cs'l job, though you won't git no hextra pay--wot about it?"