The Cruise of the Dry Dock | Page 6

wielded his brush listlessly and
looked sick. His fine shoulders sagged and his eyes were hollow in his

long face. Leonard, whose spirits naturally mounted with the sun,
found it hard to continue the three days' silence. He wanted to talk
about the splendid English coast with its gemlike villages set in green,
the red-sailed fishing smacks, the social gulls feeding in the long trail
behind the dock. It is difficult to be reserved under such conditions.
Then, too, Caradoc was so obviously ill, Madden felt sorry for the
fellow.
As for the Englishman, he paid little attention to his working mate, but
languidly splashed the iron wall, and himself, with red paint. After
some two hours' work, he stood up on the platform as if sore, made an
irresolute start, finally climbing the rope ladder to the top. Madden
wondered about the queer fellow, but was rather relieved by his
absence. Within twenty or thirty minutes, however, he was back, but in
perceptibly better spirits. He worked briskly for a few minutes, then
dropped brush in pail and turned to Leonard as if no shadow had
crossed their acquaintance.
"Well, Madden, we can hardly blame the old Phoenicians for guarding
the secret of the Cassiterides, can we?"
The American almost fell off the platform in surprise.
"Why--er--no, I don't blame 'em," he blurted, not having a ghost of a
notion what the Englishman was talking about. "No, I--I never blamed
'em a bit--never did."
"Those were poetic days, Madden."
The American stared, his mind as much at sea as his body.
"Think of that Phoenician sailing his galley for the Isles of Tin. The
Romans follow him, day after day, week after week. But does he betray
the secret of Tyre's wealth?" Caradoc made a gesture. Madden was
about to answer that he didn't know, when the orator went on.
"He does not. Rather than expose the rich mines of Cornwall, he dashes
his galley upon a reef and risks his life among the early English

barbarians."
"Was it here where that happened?" asked Madden interestedly, fishing
some such tale from the bottom of his recollection.
Caradoc stood upright on the swinging platform, hands thrust in jacket
pockets, thumbs out, Oxford fashion. His tall form swayed slowly with
the steady rise and fall of the dock.
"Certainly, the Cassiterides is Cornwall, and that point of land just
ahead is the spot where the Tyrian wrecked his ship, so the legend
goes."
Madden's eyes followed Caradoc's gesture. "I've read that story, but I
never thought of seeing the place."
"Cornwall is entrancing if you care for antiquities," went on Smith in
the polished style of a collegiate. "Four or five miles up that cape are
the Boskednan Circles and the Dawns-un, old Druidic stone temples.
Just across the peninsula is St. Ives, where the virgin Hya appeared
miraculously. It is really regrettable, Madden, that you are leaving
England before you tour Cornwall. A wonderful little island, England.
A land to live for--or to die for, God willing."
Caradoc stared toward the coast, frowning, with the old familiar look of
pain coming into his eyes. His hearer and his extemporaneous lecture
plainly slipped out of his mind.
"You've been along here before," suggested Madden with a hope of
diverting Smith's mind.
"Oh, yes," replied the Englishman gloomily.
"Sailor, perhaps?"
"Yes."
"Not another dry dock, I trust," laughed Madden, turning to work.

"No."
"Windjammer?"
"Yes."
Leonard nodded at his painting. "Fishing smack, I'll bet."
The cross-questioning was interrupted by a raucous voice overhead,
and both boys looked up to see the mate's thick torso hanging over the
rail. He was shaking his fist at the tall Englishman.
"W'ot you think we brought you along for?" he bawled savagely. "To
give lectures? If you don't paint and quit blowin', you win' bag, I'll ship
you at Penzance!"
Caradoc's face went white, leaving threadlike purple veins showing on
nose and cheeks. "I'm willing to do my duty," he said with a quiver in
his tone. He glanced at his empty paint bucket. "If I'm to work, bring
me paint--I'm out!"
Caradoc seemed to be able to make the mate madder and do it quicker
than anyone else.
"Paint! Bring you paint!" roared Malone, apoplectic. "Git out an' git
your paint, or I'll put a longer, uglier head than that on your shoulders."
Caradoc gave a shrug, stooped for the bucket, then began composedly
climbing the ladder straight at the sputtering officer.
"Be careful there, Smith," warned Madden in an undertone; "he'd as
soon as not slug you without giving you a dog's chance."
Caradoc said nothing but continued his climbing. The men on the
platform fore and aft ceased work, watching the mate and the climbing
man intently. The silence following the usual drone of conversation
was