ELLIOTT WHITNEY

Illustrated by Fred J. Arting

COPYRIGHT, 1914 by THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.

Then, without warning, the lines shot up and curled about the landing—cut short and clean.

CHAPTER I

"WHAT'S TRINGANU?"

"I don't care what your orders are. Cap'n Hollinger sent for me, and I'm going aboard or I'll know the reason why!"

"Well, ain't you just heard the reason why, son? He ain't here, and orders is orders. There ain't no one comin' aboard the Seamew, that's all. Nothin' was said about any Mart Judson, kid."

"Then I guess your ears need tuning up. I'm comin' aboard, see?"

"Ye'll go overboard then. Well, if the kid ain't goin' to walk right up to me! Look out there, kid—get off that gangplank in a hurry!"

Trouble was in the air. At the rail of the trim yacht Seamew lounged Swanson, her burly first officer, pipe in mouth. He was evidently angry, for his heavy features were dark and lowering and his deep-set blue eyes glittered ominously. But the boy who faced him from the wharf was no less stirred up.

Mart Judson looked a good deal more than his seventeen years, for he had worked his own way in the world and his face had a serious air of responsibility. He wore a smudgy mechanic's cap and greasy overalls, and from his keen gray eyes, determined mouth and chin, and straight black hair, an observer might have deduced that he could be a hard worker and a stubborn fighter if need were.

Yet it was small wonder that Swanson had laughed at him. A boy mechanic asking for Stephen Hollinger personally, insisting that the millionaire had sent for him! Mart started obstinately up the gangplank and the mate laid his pipe on the rail, gave a hitch to his trousers, and moved forward to repel boarders.

Before he reached the open gangway, however, there came an interrupting shout from the deck:

"Hello, old Mart Judson! How're ye?"

A second later Mart found himself clasping hands with his friend, Bob Hollinger, better known as "Holly," the son of the mining expert and millionaire who owned the yacht. It was a hearty greeting, in spite of the greasy, cheap clothes of the one, and the carelessly costly dress of the other. The fact that Mart Judson worked for his living mattered nothing to Bob or to his father; the boys were the same age and had gone through high school together, and the two were firm friends.

Stephen Hollinger was an eccentric yet sensible "old-timer," whose habits were rough and ready and who made Bob work for his pocket-money most of the time. He had been working just at present, Mart noted; his fingers were ink-stained, his blue-eyed, freckled, careless face was smudged, and he seemed both dirty and happy.

Mart glanced about in frank admiration at the white decks and evident luxury aboard the yacht. It was his first visit to the Seamew, for she was seldom used by her owner. Swanson moved off, grumbling. Mart sent a good-humored laugh after the discomfited mate, and turned to his chum.

"What's on your mind, Holly? I had a mighty hard time gettin' away—we're rushed up at the shop. Blurt it out, 'cause I ain't got time for visitin' to-day. Some seamen had a scrap down at the Peniel Mission, and I've got to get down there with some new bulbs and fixtures before dark. What's goin' on?"

"You are," grinned Holly in delight. "Say, Mart—I've got the best news you ever heard! See those boxes over there on the wharf? They're cabin stores for a cruise. And you're goin' along with us."

Mart stared blankly at his friend. Bob was plainly in earnest, for all that his blue eyes were dancing.

"Cut out the funny business! I've got to get back. Did you send that message or did your dad?"

"Nothing doing on going back," laughed Bob, seizing his arm. "Hold on—this isn't any pipe dream, old scout. Mother's gone east for a month. Dad's got to quit work—got indigestion or gastritis or some o' those stomach things. So we're goin' across the Pacific. You're going along."

"Not me!" ejaculated Mart quickly, wondering if his chum were crazy. "I got to hold my job. I'll get a chance at a real wireless job in the spring, maybe."

"Well," and Bob shrugged his shoulders, "if you'd sooner work in the shop for eight a week than be wireless man on the Seamew at forty a month and all found, you can. And if you like San Francisco better'n the other side o' the world, suit yourself. I ain't your boss, of course!"

The two stared at each other, and slowly the reality of the thing grew in Mart Judson's brain. Yet it was impossible! He had his wireless license, but no one would employ him at his age. But Holly was plainly in dead earnest. Mart could only stare.

"Where you going?" he asked suddenly.

"Tringanu."

"What's Tringanu?"

Bob hesitated. "Well, I'm not quite sure myself," he answered. Then his face brightened quickly. "Here's dad coming now—we'll ask him. It struck me kind o' sudden too."

Mart turned as a step sounded behind him, and his hand met that of Stephen Hollinger. The millionaire was dressed roughly in serge and yachting cap, for he was his own captain aboard the yacht. His strong, whimsical face lighted up in a smile at Mart's expression.

"So you got down, eh! Glad to see you. Bob told you about it yet?"

"I just got here," replied Mart. "If he wasn't joking, Mr. Hollinger—"

"Where's Tringanu, dad?" broke in Bob excitedly.

Captain Hollinger—for he assumed this title aboard the Seamew—looked at the two boys amusedly, then took each by an arm and propelled them toward the companionway.

"Come along to the cabin; I'll give you half an hour. You see, Mart, we've been so rushed that even Bob hasn't had time to get an explanation. I got doctor's orders two days ago to drop business and do it quick. So we came up from Pasadena, the yacht will be in commission in another day or so, and off we go to Tringanu!"

Five minutes later Mart Judson found himself at a big mahogany table, his chum opposite him, while the captain got charts from another cabin. The luxury about him was astonishing; mahogany furnishings, walls, bookcases, a talking machine and a piano, electric lights and fans. Everything that could add to comfort or convenience was there, and he was soon to find that the rest of the yacht was fitted up in like manner.

"Now," began Captain Hollinger, returning with his maps and charts, "maybe you know, Mart, that I'm something of a big game hunter, eh?"

"I should guess!" grinned Mart. Like everyone else in San Francisco he knew that Stephen Hollinger was an enthusiastic sportsman; indeed, mining and hunting were said to be his chief pleasures in life.

"Well, I'm going hunting. And I'm going here—" he put his finger on the map as the two boys craned their necks over it. "Tringanu is one of the Malay states, on the mainland of Asia; it's not exactly civilized, but I'm thinking of getting a mining concession there at a place I heard of.

"Here it is, on this chart of the China Sea. About halfway up the coast of Tringanu, see? It's this bay and the lagoon, where the river drains that big basin, that ought to have gold. There are tigers in the hills, so I'm going over there on my vacation, maybe get a gold-mining concession from the government, shoot a tiger or so, and come home happier, healthier and wealthier. Isn't that a good program, Mart?"

"You bet your life it is!" cried the boy, his eyes shining eagerly. "Golly! Say, was Bob talking turkey about my going?"

"I guess he was," laughed the captain, looking at Bob. "I told him I could use a wireless man—had to have one, in fact—and he said you had your license."

"Got it two weeks ago," admitted Mart with some pride. It had cost him many hours of nightwork and study, had that license as wireless operator. Then his face fell suddenly. "I'm not old enough to take the job, though—"

"Shucks, that don't matter!" broke in Holly. "This isn't a reg'lar job."

"No," assented his father. "All you would have to do is to get market reports every few days and send some messages back. Look at these maps again, boys. Now, here's the place, I figure that we'll go to Honolulu, then hit straight for our goal. The river is named Kuala Besut, and we'll probably stay there a couple of weeks or more, using divers. All the gold along there has to be dredged up, you see. While the diving is going on, we can run up-country shooting."

"Who put you wise to the gold mine, dad?" inquired Bob curiously.

"Old Jerry Smith—a man who has spent all his life out there. He's going to sail with us. Now hush up for a minute, both of you. From Honolulu we go direct to the Malay coast, cutting in through the Philippines without stopping. On the way back we can do all the visiting we want to.

"There's the plan, boys. We'd like to have you go along, Mart, to take care of our wireless. Salary, forty a month and all found. Of course you'd mess with us, at the officers' mess, and you boys could have great old times. How about it? I believe you are free to go, Mart?"

"Plenty free, sir," nodded Mart. "I've had no one to worry over me since mother died, two years ago. Only—it's an awful big thing for a fellow to make up his mind to, right off the bat like this. These here Malay States—aren't they pretty wild and woolly! I've got a notion that's where the pirates come from—"

The financier broke into a laugh.

"Not to-day, Judson! Why, in Tringanu they make some of the best steel in the world—the natives, I mean. That's where those curly krisses and Malay daggers come from. But the piracy is all over. Tringanu isn't exactly civilized, I'll admit, but it's under British protection, like all the rest of the Malay States.

"This place where we're going, Kuala Besut, is inside these islands here, and Jerry Smith says that we can go right up the river in the yacht. Also, he says, it will be easy to take trips into the jungle with some of the native chiefs, and bag a tiger or so."

"Who's this Jerry Smith?" asked Mart.

"He's an old-timer—been beating around the Pacific most of his life. They say he used to be a pirate and blackbirder and that he can tell strange yarns if he will—but that's all talk. He's just a quiet, white-haired old man. I've found from other sources that there'll be no trouble getting a concession on the place—if there's any gold there. Now that's all I know about the thing. It's up to you, Mart!"

"Well," grinned the gray-eyed boy, glancing at his friend, "you needn't worry about me. If you really mean it, I'd—I'd pay you to take me along, sir!"

"Not much," laughed the captain. "It's the other way around, Mart. Well, we sail Monday morning. Old Jerry is getting a crew for us and he'll come aboard Sunday night with the men. You'd better quit work at the shop to-night, get our wireless in shape over to-morrow, to pass the port inspectors, and rest up Sunday. I'll detail Bob to help you—he's been acting as supercargo up to date."

"Much obliged," grunted Bob sarcastically, "How about an outfit? Will Mart have to get any clothes?"

"Not on my ship. They'll come out of the slop-chest. Oh, you needn't look that way, Mart," and the financier laughed at Mart's dismay. "Slop-chest is sailors' slang for ship's stores. Just fetch your ordinary clothes. Bob, you'd better get that stateroom next to yours fixed up; then you boys can be together. Now, is there anything more you fellows want to know?"

"Lots," shot out Mart with a sigh as he rose to his feet. "I want to know so much that it makes my head ache to think of it—but I've got to get back and get these fixtures down to the Peniel before dark. I'll turn up in the morning ready for work. And, say, I'm sure grateful to you, Mr.—er—Captain Hollinger! And I'll do my best to earn my salary, you can be sure of—"

"Well, get along with you," broke in the financier, smiling. "See you to-morrow!"

Bob walked up the wharf with his friend, and as they parted, Mart turned to him.

"By golly, Bob," he said slowly, "I can't believe it! Say, won't we have one peach of a time, though? S'pose your dad will take us along after the tigers?"

"Of course he will!" agreed Holly, who had stout confidence in his father. "We've got more rifles and guns coming down to-morrow than you can shake a stick at. And we'll go down in the diving suits, too—dad's promised that already. Well, so long! See you to-morrow."

As Mart Judson walked up the street, he trod on air. It was like a dream come true. He would be crossing the Pacific, going to foreign lands, getting the very job he had been vainly longing for—and getting paid for it all!

"I wonder if it's really true," he thought, staring with unseeing eyes at the scenes around him. "Blamed if it ain't too good to be true—tiger shooting and diving and gold mines—Oh, what's the use! I'm dreaming!"

CHAPTER II

JERRY SMITH, QUARTERMASTER

"How's she coming? It's 'most noon, Mart."

"Huh? Oh, she's great. I can't find anything wrong, except a little rust. I'll take a look at that transmitting jigger and send out a flash, I guess."

"What's the transmitting jigger?"

"This—the oscillation transformer. It transfers the primary circuit energy, which has low potential, to the aerial circuit, where it reaches a mighty high potential at the free insulated end—"

"Hey! What d'you think I am—a walking 'cyclopaedia?" broke in Bob indignantly. "Cut out that high-flown talk with me, Mart, and get down to where I can collect on you. Going to send a message?"

"Golly, no!" returned Mart, busily, adjusting his current. "We'd have the port officers down on us in a jiffy. It's all right to pick up messages, but to do any private monkey-work by sendin' them is liable to get a fellow in bad. No, I'm just going to see that the sparker's workin' right—"

"Never mind a technical description," broke in Bob. "Just go ahead and I'll be satisfied to watch. But when you get through, there's some stuff down in the cabin that you might like to look over."

"All right," grunted the other, pressing down his key. The blue spark leaped out for a long moment, but Mart was careful not to break it, and with a satisfied nod he threw off the current. The Seamew's wireless, in spite of a year of disuse, was in splendid shape; like other merchant ship stations of modern type, it was almost perfect in its conveniences. The whole transmitting apparatus, from the generator to the aerial tuning inductance, was in a special silence cabinet; this not only kept the noise of the spark and generator down, but shut off all high-tension apparatus from the operator. Mart explained this at some length to his chum.

"It's strictly fool-proof, so I'll give you some lessons when we get out in the ocean," he grinned. "We can send messages all we please there, but not in port."

"Well, you come along down to the cabin," returned Bob ungraciously. He had no knowledge of things mechanical, and no liking for them. His tastes ran to athletics, and by careful cultivation of his body he had made himself the physical equal, or nearly so, of Mart Judson, whose strength and alertness were entirely natural.

Leaving the wireless house, which was on the upper bridge deck just abaft the chart house and signal locker, the two boys slid down the ladders to the lower deck. Cases of provisions and supplies were being slung down the fore hold by the steam winch, and except for the two mates and a couple of wharf hands, no one was in sight. The engine-room crew was aboard, together with the Chinese steward, but the crew of a dozen men would not come aboard until the next night.

Indeed, the principal use for a crew aboard the Seamew was to keep the brasswork polished and the decks holystoned, it seemed to Mart. Everything was done by steam-power; while the wheel-house had a helm, the steam steering-gear was used entirely, the anchor was worked by steam, and the boats and launch carried on the bridge deck could be swung out by the same power.

"What's waiting for us?" queried Mart as they turned to the after companionway leading to the cabins.

"You come along and see," returned Bob Hollinger mysteriously. "Dad's gone uptown, so we got the craft to ourselves right now."

Mart followed his friend down into the cabin, then stopped suddenly and caught his breath. A big mahogany chest stood open at one side, and on the table was laid out an astonishing array of hunting supplies. There were guns of every conceivable size and shape, it seemed to him. He picked up the first to hand and examined it, while Bob excitedly explained.

"That's a Mannlicher-Schoener. It's dad's favorite for big game, Mart."

"Huh!" exclaimed Mart critically. "She ain't much bigger'n the old twenty-two I used to have, Holly. I'll eat all the big game your dad ever shoots with that gun!"

"Don't you believe it! That's the Austrian army gun—she's a two-fifty-six caliber cordite, hasn't any kick to speak of, and they use it on elephants in Africa. Why, she'll kill at a mile, Mart!"

"Mebbe," and Mart doubtfully laid the weapon down. "You'll have to show me first, though. Whew! this looks like a regular hardware shop! That's a beaut of a shotgun."

While it hardly seemed possible that the Austrian gun could be all Bob said, Mart knew that his chum was well posted. However, there were guns of all sizes and kinds, from target rifles to heavy twenty-gauge Parker shotguns, as well as four ugly-looking automatic pistols. Besides these there were half a dozen long hunting-knives, bandoliers, belts, and other articles of equipment.

"Dad sent down his whole outfit," explained Bob gleefully. "We're likely to get a chance for some fine shooting on the voyage. But say! Come in here a minute! This'll make you sit up, sure!"

He hastily led his chum into the smoking-room beyond. A large packing-case stood on the floor, and on the table was a small but complete moving-picture machine, at sight of which Mart gave a yell of delight.

"By golly!" he cried, examining it. "It's one o' those English things, Holly—I was reading about it last week! You take 'em around with you and—why, she's a wonder! No bigger'n a camera, either!"

In fact, the whole machine was no larger than a good-sized camera, and Mart decided on the spot that he would be moving-picture operator. It was Captain Hollinger's intention to take pictures of Kuala Besut, of his prospective gold-concession, of the whole vicinity, and of his tiger hunts if possible, and the two boys were wild over the prospect. Suddenly Mart turned as a quiet voice broke in from behind.

"Hm—hm—beg pardon, gentlemen!"

A stoop-shouldered, gentle-faced old man stood in the doorway, cap in hand. He had very watery blue eyes, his expression was mild in the extreme, and long white hair fell on his shoulders; but for his tanned, leathery skin, Mart would have taken him for an old clerk in a bank.

"Yes?" inquired Bob. "You wanted someone here?"

"Why, I was looking for the cap'n," said the old man. His voice was soft, but carried far. "My name's Smith, Jerry Smith, quartermaster."

"Oh, you're the Jerry Smith that's to sail with us!" Bob spoke in no little astonishment, for the old man looked anything but a tarry sailor. "Why, dad's gone uptown for the afternoon, Mr. Smith. I'm Bob Hollinger, and this is Mart Judson, who goes with us."

"Pleased, gentlemen," and the other jerked his head slightly, gazing around with mild interest. "That's a sight o' hardware, here in the main cabin. My stars! Is the cap'n going to shoot all those weapons, young sir?"

"Well, he hopes to," grinned Mart easily, shoving back the mop of black hair from his brow. "Going to take moving pictures, too. I'm the wireless operator."

"Eh?" Jerry Smith looked astonished. "Why, young sir, that is surprising! I did not know we—we were going to have a wireless operator!" His watery eyes blinked a little, and his soft voice dropped to a deeper tone. "Well, well! And I was just about your age, I imagine, when I first put to sea!"

Mart hoped for a moment that the old man was going to spin a yarn, but instead he only heaved a sigh and mopped at his nose with a huge bandanna.