West Wind Drift | Page 4

outwit, outrace and outshoot the German pirates?
The Doraine was barely twenty-four hours out from port and ploughing along steadily through a choppy sea when Mr. Mott, the First Officer, reported to Captain Trigger that a stowaway had been found on board.
"German?" inquired Captain Trigger tersely.
"No, sir. At least, he doesn't look it and, what's more, he doesn't act it. Claims to be American born and bred."
"That's what a great many Germans are claiming these days, Mr. Mott. We can't take any chances, you know. Where was he found?"
Mr. Mott cleared his throat. "Ahem! He wasn't what you might call found, sir. As a matter of fact, he applied in person to the Chief Engineer about half an hour ago and asked for a job. He said he was perfectly willing to work out his passage home. Mr. Gray had him conducted to me, sir,--rather sharply guarded, of course,--and he--"
"Fetch him here at once, Mr. Mott," commanded Captain Trigger. "I'll hear what he has to say first hand."
"Very well, sir." Mr. Mott started away, hesitated, rubbed his chin dubiously, and then came back. "He's having a bit of breakfast, sir, and has asked for the loan of Mr. Codge's razors--"
"What?" roared the captain.
"I informed him he would have to appear before you at once, sir, and he said he was quite willing to do so, but would it be possible for him to tidy up a bit beforehand. I am obliged to confess, sir, that I have never encountered a more interesting stowaway in all my career, which leads me to confess still further that I gave orders to feed him,--he hasn't had a mouthful to eat since we left port, owing to the fact, he says, that his luggage shifted the first day out and try as he would he couldn't locate it without a match, or something to that effect,--he rather stumped me, sir, with the graceful way he lies,--and then Mr. Codge agreed to let him take one of his razors, and when I left him below, sir, it seemed quite certain that Mr. Gray was on the point of lending him a shirt and a change of underwear. I--"
"Good God, sir!" gasped Captain Trigger, with something more than emotion in his voice. "What is this you are telling me?"
"He seems a most likeable chap," explained Mr. Mott lamely. "Quite a courteous fellow, too, sir. I forgot to mention that he sent his compliments to you and asks for an interview at your earliest conven--"
"Asked for an interview? Drag him here at once--by the heels, if necessary. Tell him I shan't keep him waiting an instant," said the captain ironically.
Mr. Mott still hesitated. "In the event, sir, that he is in the midst of shaving--"
"I don't care a hang what he's in the midst of," exclaimed Captain Trigger. "Even in the midst of changing shirts. Present my compliments to him, Mr. Mott, and say that he needn't dress up on my account. I am an old-fashioned sailor-man. It is nothing new to me to see men who haven't shaved in a fortnight, and others who never change shirts."
"Very well, sir," said Mr. Mott, and departed.
Presently he reappeared with the stowaway in charge.
Captain Trigger beheld a well set-up young man of medium height, with freshly shaven chin and jaws, carefully brushed hair, spotless white shirt and collar, and,--revealed in a quick glance,--recently scrubbed hands. His brown Norfolk jacket was open, and he carried a brand new, though somewhat shapeless pan-ama hat in his hand. Evidently he had ceased fanning himself with it at the moment of entering the captain's presence. The keen, good-looking face was warm and moist as the result of a most violent soaping. He wore corduroy riding-breeches, cavalry boots that betrayed their age in spite of a late polishing at the hands of an energetic and carefully directed bootblack, and a broad leather belt from which only half an eye was required to see that a holster had been detached with a becoming regard for neatness. His hair was thick and sun-bleached; his eyes, dark and unafraid, met the stern gaze of the captain with directness and respect; his lips and chin were firm in repose, but they might easily be the opposite if relaxed; his skin was so tanned and wind-bitten that the whites of his eyes were startlingly defined and vivid. He was not a tall man,--indeed, one would have been justified in suspecting him of being taller than he really was because of the more or less deceiving erectness with which he carried himself. As a matter of fact, he was not more than five feet ten or ten and a half.
Captain Trigger eyed him narrowly for a moment.
"What is your name?"
"A. A. Percival, sir."
"Your full name, young man. No initials."
The stowaway seemed