The Web of the Golden Spider

CHAPTER X

Strange Fishing

Yes, her arms were extended towards him. The fact made the world swim before his eyes. Then he thought of Sorez and–it was well Sorez was not within reach of him. Slowly the barrier widened between Wilson and his Comrade–slowly she faded from sight, even while his eyes strained to hold the last glimpse of her. It seemed as though the big ship were dragging the heart out of him. On it went, slowly, majestically, inevitably, tugging, straining until it was difficult for him to catch his breath. She was taking away not only her own sweet self, but the joy and life from everything about him; the color from the sky, the gold from the sunbeams, the savor from the breezes. To others the sky was blue, the sun warm, and the salt-laden winds came in from over the sea with pungent keenness. To others the waters were sprinkled with joyous colors–the white sails of yachts, the weather-beaten sails of the fishermen, and the gaudy funnels of the liners. But to him it was all gray, gray–a dull, sodden gray.

He felt a tug at his sleeve and heard the gruff voice of the cabby.

“What about my fare?”

“Your fare?”

He had forgotten. He reached in his pocket and drew out a roll of bills, thrusting them into the grimy hands of the man without looking at them.

“Now get out,” he ordered.

Wilson watched the fading hulk until it was lost in the tangle of other shipping. Then he tried to hold the line of black smoke which it left in its wake. When that finally blended with the smoke from other funnels which misted into the under surface of the blue sky, he turned about and stared wearily at the jumble of buildings which marked the city that was left. The few who had come on a like mission dispersed,–sucked into the city channels to their destinations as nickel cash boxes in a department store are flashed to their goals. Wilson found himself almost alone on the pier. There was but one other who, like himself, seemed to find no interest left behind by the steamer. Wilson merely glanced at him, but soon looked back, his interest excited by something or other in the man’s appearance. He was no ordinary looking man–a certain heavy, brooding air relieved of moroseness by twinkling black eyes marked him as a man with a personality. He was short and thick set, with shaggy, iron-gray eyebrows, a smooth-shaven face speckled on one side as by a powder scar. Beneath a thin-lipped mouth a stubborn chin protruded. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and corduroy trousers, fastened by a black belt. He had the self-sufficient air of the sailor or miner, which is developed by living a great deal apart from other men. It seemed to Wilson that the man was watching him, too, with considerable interest. Every now and then he removed the short clay pipe which he was smoking and covered a half circle with his eyes which invariably included Wilson. Finally he lounged nearer and a few minutes later asked for a match.

Wilson, who was not much given to forming chance acquaintanceships, was at first inclined to be suspicious, and yet it was he who made the next advance, prompted, however, by his eagerness for information.

“Do you know anything about sailing lines to South America?” he asked.

The older man removed his pipe. Wilson thought he looked a bit startled–a bit suspicious at the question.

“What port?” he asked.

It occurred to Wilson that it might be just as well not to divulge his real destination. The only other South American port he could think of was Rio Janeiro, on the east coast.

“How about to Rio?”

“Hell of a hole–Rio,” observed the stranger, with a sad shake of his head. “But fer that matter so’s everywhere. Never found a place what wasn’t. This is,” he affirmed, sweeping his pipe in a semicircle.

“You’re right there,” agreed Wilson, the blue sky above clouding before his eyes.

“I’ve heern there’s goneter be an earthquake here some day. Swaller up the whole darned place. Guess it’s so.”

Wilson studied the man once more; he began to think the fellow was a trifle light-headed. But he decided not; he was probably only one of those with so strong an individuality as to be thought queer. The stranger was staring out to sea again as though, in the trend of fresh speculations, he had lost all interest in the conversation. However, in a minute he withdrew his pipe from his mouth, and, without turning his head, asked,

“Was you reckoning as a passenger or was yer lookin’ for a chance to ship?”

That was a proposition Wilson had not considered. It had no more occurred to him that a man untrained could secure work on a ship than on a railroad.

“Think it is possible for me to get a job?” he asked. “I’ve not had any experience.”

“There’s some things yer don’t need experience fer.”

“I’m willing to do anything–from peeling potatoes to scrubbing decks.”

“There’s better nor that fer a man.”

“I’d like to find it.”

The stranger studied the younger man from the corner of his eyes, pressing down the live coals in his pipe with a calloused forefinger.

“If you was only goin’ to the West Coast, now.”

“What? Where?”

“Say pretty far up–Say to Carlina?”

Wilson could scarcely believe his ears. He steadied himself. This must be more than mere coincidence, he thought. For all he knew, this man might be some agent of the priest. Perhaps the latter had some inkling of what had been found. But if that were so, there was little doubt but what the priest would have taken up the search for it himself. At any rate, Wilson felt well able to care for himself. The parchment was safe in an inside pocket which he had fastened at the top with safety pins. The advantage in having it there was that he could feel it with a slight pressure of his arm. If an opportunity offered to get to Carlina, he would accept it at whatever risk. Wilson answered slowly after the manner of one willing to consider an offer but eager to make a good bargain.

“I don’t know but what Carlina would suit me as well as Rio. It’s more to get away from here than anything.”

“You has the right spirit, m’ boy.”

He paused, then added indifferently,

“Dunno but what I can find a berth fer you. Come if ye wanter, an’ we’ll talk it over.”

Wilson followed. This at least offered possibilities. The stranger lolled the length of the dock shed and out into the street as unconcernedly as though only upon a stroll. They turned into the main thoroughfare among the drays and ship-chandlers’ shops, out into the busy, unconcerned life of the city. The stranger was as unconscious of the confusion about him as though he were the only occupant of the street, crossing in front of the heavy teams with a nonchalance that forced frantic drivers to draw their horses to their haunches, and motormen to bend double over their brakes. Oaths and warnings apparently never reached him. Once Wilson clutched at his broad shoulders to save him from a motor car. He merely spat at the rear wheels.

“Couldn’t git killed if I wanted to,” he grumbled.

They brought up finally before a barroom and entered, passing through to the small iron tables in the rear. The dim gas revealed smudged walls ornamented with dusty English sporting prints–a cock fight, a fist fight, and a coach and four done in colors. A dwarf of a waiter swabbed off the wet disks made by beer glasses.

“Two half and halfs,” ordered the stranger.

When they were brought, he shoved one towards Wilson.

“Drink,” he said. “Might’s well.”

Wilson gulped down the bitter beer. It cleared his head and gave him new life. The stranger ordered another.

“Can’t talk to a man when he’s thirsty,” he observed.

The room grew hazily warm, and Wilson felt himself glowing with new life and fresh courage.

“My name is Stubbs–Jonathan Stubbs,” explained the stranger, as Wilson put down the empty mug. “Follered the sea for forty year. Rotten hard work–rotten bad grub–rotten poor pay. Same on land as on sea, I reckon. No good anywhere. Got a friend who’s a longshoreman and says th’ same ’bout his work. No good anywhere.”

He paused as though waiting for the other to introduce himself.

“My name is Wilson, haven’t done much of anything–and that’s rotten poor fun. But I want to get to South America and I’ll do anything under the sun that will pay my way there.”

“Anything?”

“Yes,” laughed Wilson, “anything, to heaving coal.”

“’Fraid of your neck?” asked Stubbs.

“Try me.”

“Gut any family?”

“No.”

“Ever shipped afore?”

“No.”

Stubbs settled further back in his chair and studied the ceiling.

“Wotcher want to git there for?”

“I have a friend who’s somewhere down there,” he said frankly.

“Man?”

“No.”

“Women,” mused Stubbs, “is strange. Can’t never lay your hand on a woman. Here they are an’ here they ain’t. I had a woman once’t. Yes, I had a woman once’t.”

He relapsed into a long silence and Wilson studied him with friendlier interest than before. Life was written large upon his wrinkled face, but the eyes beneath the heavy brows redeemed many of the bitter lines. It was clear that the man had lived much within himself in spite of his long rubbing against the world. He was a man, Wilson thought, who could warn men off, or welcome them in, at will.

“Maybe,” he resumed, “maybe you’ll come an’ maybe you won’t. Come if you wanter.”

“Where to?”

“To Choco Bay. Can’t promise you nothin’ but a berth to the port,–good pay an’ a damned rough time after you get there. Maybe your throat cut in the end.”

“I’ll go,” said Wilson, instantly.

The gray eyes brightened.

“Now I ain’t promised you nothin’, have I, but to git you to the coast?”

“No.”

“Hain’t said nothin’, have I, ’bout what may happen to you after you git there?”

“Only that I may get my throat cut.”

“What’s the difference if you do? But if you wants to, I’ll gamble my chest agin a chaw that you won’t. Nothin’ ever comes out right.”

“But I don’t want to. I most particularly object to getting my throat cut.”

“Then,” said Stubbs, “maybe you will. Where’s your kit?”

“On my back.”

“You’ll need more than that. Come on.”

Stubbs led the way to a second-hand store and bought for his new-found friend a flannel shirt, trousers like his own, a pair of stout boots, and a cap.

Wilson had nothing left of his ten dollars.

“All the same,” said Stubbs. “Settle when you git your pay.”

He led him then to a pawn shop where he picked out a thirty-two calibre revolver and several boxes of cartridges. Also a thick-bladed claspknife.

“See here, Stubbs,” objected Wilson, “I don’t need those things. I’m not going pirating, am I?”

“Maybe so. Maybe only missionaryin’. But a gun’s a useful ornyment in either case.”

He drew out a heavy silver watch and with his forefinger marking off each hour, computed how much time was left to him.

“What d’ ye say,” he broke out, looking up at Wilson, “what d’ ye say to goin’ fishin’, seein’ as we’ve gut a couple of hours on our hands?”

“Fishing?” gasped Wilson.

“Fishin’,” answered the other, calmly. “I know a feller down by the wharf who’ll take us cheap. Might’s well fish as anything else. Prob’ly won’t git none. Never do. I’ll jus’ drop in below here and git some bait an’ things.”

A dozen blocks or so below, he left Wilson on the sidewalk and vanished into a store whose windows were cluttered with ship’s junk. Anchor-chains, tarpaulin, marlinspikes, ropes, and odd bits of iron were scattered in a confusion of fish nets. Stubbs emerged with a black leather bag so heavy that he was forced to ask Wilson to help him lift it to his shoulders.

“Going to fish with cast-iron worms?” asked Wilson.

“Maybe so. Maybe so.”

He carried the bag lightly once it was in place and forged a path straight ahead with the same indifference to pedestrians he had shown towards teams, apparently deaf to the angry protestations of those who unwisely tried their weight against the heavy bag. Suddenly he turned to the right and clambered down a flight of stairs to a float where a man was bending over a large dory.

“Engaged for to-day?” he demanded of the young fellow who was occupied in bailing out the craft. The man glanced up at Stubbs and then turned his attention to Wilson.

“My friend,” went on Stubbs, “I want to get a little fishin’ ’fore dark. Will you ’commodate me?”

“Get in, then,” growled the owner.

He helped Stubbs lower the bag into the stern, with the question,

“Any more to your party?”

“This is all,” answered Stubbs.

In five minutes Wilson found himself in the prow being rowed out among the very shipping at which a few hours before he had stared with such resentment. What a jackstraw world this had proved itself to him in this last week! It seemed that on the whole he had had very little to do with his own life, that he was being juggled by some unknown hand. And yet he seemed, too, to be moving definitely towards some unknown goal. And this ultimate towards which his life was trending was inseparably bound up with that of the girl. His heart gave a bound as they swung out into the channel. He felt himself to be close on the heels of Jo. It mattered little what lay in between. The incidents of life counted for nothing so long as they helped him to move step by step to her side. He had come to his own again,–come into the knowledge of the strength within him, into the swift current of youth. He realized that it was the privilege of youth to meet life as it came and force it to obey the impulses of the heart. He felt as though the city behind him had laid upon him the oppressive weight of its hand and that now he had shaken it free.

The color came back once more into the world.

CHAPTER XI

What was Caught

The man at the oars rowed steadily and in silence with an easy swing of his broad shoulders. He wormed his way in and out of the shipping filling the harbor with the same instinct with which a pedestrian works through a crowd. He slid before ferry boats, gilded under the sterns of schooners, and missed busy launches by a yard, never pausing in his stroke, never looking over his shoulder, never speaking. They proceeded in this way some three miles until they were out of the harbor proper and opposite a small, sandy island. Here the oarsman paused and waited for further orders. Stubbs glanced at his big silver watch and thought a moment. It was still a good three hours before dark. Beyond the island a fair-sized yacht lay at anchor. Stubbs took from his bag a pair of field glasses and leveled them upon this ship. Wilson followed his gaze and detected a fluttering of tiny flags moving zigzag upon the deck. After watching these a moment Stubbs, with feigned indifference, turned his glasses to the right and then swung them in a semicircle about the harbor, and finally towards the wharf they had left. He then carefully replaced the glasses in their case, tucked them away in the black bag, and, after relighting his pipe, said,

“What’s the use er fishin’?” He added gloomily, “Never catch nothin’.”

He glanced at the water, then at the sky, then at the sandy beach which lay just to port.

“Let’s go ashore and think it over,” he suggested.

The oarsman swung into action again as silently and evenly as though Stubbs had pressed an electric button.

In a few minutes the bow scraped upon the sand, and in another Stubbs had leaped out with his bag. Wilson clambered after. Then to his amazement, the latter saw the oarsman calmly shove off and turn the boat’s prow back to the wharf. He shot a glance at Stubbs and saw that the latter had seen the move, and had said nothing. For the first time he began to wonder in earnest just what sort of a mission they were on.

Stubbs stamped his cramped legs, gave a hitch to his belt, and filled his clay pipe, taking a long time to scrape out the bowl, whittle off a palmful of tobacco, roll it, and stuff it into the bowl with a care which did not spill a speck of it. When it was fairly burning, he swept the island with his keen eyes and suggested that they take a walk.

The two made a circle of the barren acres which made up the island and returned to their starting point with scarcely a word having been spoken. Stubbs picked out a bit of log facing the ship and sat down. He waved his hand towards the yacht.

“That,” he said, “is the craft that’ll take us there–if it don’t go down.”

“Why don’t we go aboard, then?” ventured Wilson.

“’Cause why? ’Cause we’re goneter wait fer the other fishermen.”

“I hope they have found as comfortable a fishing-ground as we have.”

He studied Stubbs a moment and then asked abruptly,

“What’s the meaning of this fishing story?”

Stubbs turned upon him with a face as blank as the cloudless sky above.

“If I was goneter give a bright young man advice ’bout this very trip,” he answered slowly, “it would be not to ask any questions.”

“I don’t consider it very inquisitive to want to know what I’m shipping on,” he returned with some heat.

“Ye said ye wanted t’ git somewhere near Carlina, didn’t ye?”

“Yes.”

“An’ ye said ye didn’t care how you gut there so long’s ye gut there.”

“Yes,” admitted Wilson.

“Well–ye’re on yer way to Carlina now. An’ if we ain’t blown t’ hell, as likely ’nuff we will be, an’ if we don’t all git our bloomin’ throats cut like I dreamed ’bout, er if the ship ain’t scuttled as we’ll have a precious crew who ’u’d do it in a second, we’ll git there.”

He paused as though expecting some reply, but already Wilson had lost interest in his query before other speculations of warmer interest.

“In the meanwhile,” ran on Stubbs, “’tain’t bad right here. Shouldn’t wonder though but what we gut an old hellion of a thunder shower ’fore long.”

“How do you figure that out without a cloud in the sky?”

“Don’t figure it out. Don’t ever figure nothin’ out, ’cause nothin’ ever comes out right. Only sech things is jus’ my luck.”

He puffed a moment at his pipe, and then, removing it, turned to the young man beside him with a renewed interest which seemed to be the result of his meditation.

“See here, m’ boy, I’m thinkin’ that if you and I c’uld sorter pull together on this trip it ’u’d be a good thing fer us both. I reckon I’ll need a man or two at my side what I can depend upon, and maybe you’ll find one come in handy, too. Ye’ll find me square, but damned unlucky. As fer you, it’s clear to see you’re square ’nuff. I like a man at the start or I don’t like him ever. I like you, an’ if it’s agreeable we can strike articles of ’greement to pull together, as you might say.”

Wilson listened in some surprise at this unexpected turn in the attitude of his friend, but he could not doubt the man’s sincerity. He extended his hand at once, responding heartily,

“I’m with you. We ought to be able to help.”

“You’ve gotter work a little longer in the dark, m’ boy, ’cause it isn’t for me to tell another man’s business. But I’ve looked inter this and so far’s I can see it is all right and above board. It’s onusual an’ I’m not bankin’ much on how it’ll come out, but we don’t have to worry none over that. Ye’ll have a captain whose got more heart than head maybe, which is diff’rent from most captains who useter sail down here.”

“I’m willing to take what comes.”

“It’s the only way. Wrastle it out each day and, win er lose, forgit it in yer sleep. We all reaches the same port in the end.”

The sun beat down warmly on the two men, the blue waves danced merrily before their eyes, and just beyond the good ship rode at anchor, rising and falling rhythmically. Already the city seemed hundreds of miles behind to Wilson, although he had only to turn his head to see it. Whether it was the salt, sea air or the smack of many lands which clung to the man at his side, he felt himself in another world, a world of broader, looser laws.

“In about an hour,” drawled Stubbs, “the others will be here. There’ll be all kinds, I expect; some of ’em sober, some of ’em drunk; some of ’em cool, some of ’em scared; some of ’em willing, some of ’em balky. But all of ’em has gotter git aboard that vessel. An’ you and me has gotter do it.”

“How many?”

“Maybe fifty; maybe more.”

“Pretty good handful.”

“It would be if we didn’t start first. So it’s jus’ as well–not that we’re lookin’ fer trouble or even expectin’ it, as you may say, but jus’ to nip trouble in the bud, as the sayin’ is,–to look at our weapins.”

He drew out his own heavy Colt’s revolver, removed the cartridges, tested the hammer, and refilled the chambers. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Wilson to see that he was equally careful. The latter could not help but smile a little. He felt more as though he were on the stage than in real life. To be preparing for as much trouble as though in some uncivilized country, while still within sight of the office buildings of a modern city, seemed an absurdity. Yet here he was, in his sober senses, and at his side sat Stubbs, and, behind, the big chimneys belched smoke, while he thrust one cartridge after another into the bright cylinder of his weapon. But when he looked again at the ocean which lay before him an unbroken plain extending to the shores of other continents, his act and his situation seemed more natural. He was preparing for the things before him, not the life behind. The waters breaking at their feet were brothers to those many thousands of miles distant.

The sun sank lower and lower towards the blue horizon line, finally spattering the sky with color as it sank into the sea as though it had splashed into a pot of molten gold. Behind them the whistles screamed that work might cease. In front, where there were no roads or paths to cut the blue, the only surface whereon man has not been able to leave his mark since the first created day, a deep peace came down. The world became almost a dream world, so hushed and vague it grew. The yacht which still rocked at anchor grew as dim as a ghost ship. The purple of the sky deepened and the stars came out.

“Look at her now,” drawled Stubbs, with a sweep of his hand towards the waters, “like an infant in arms, but afore mornin’ reachin’ for yer throat, maybe. Next to wimen I don’t s’pose there’s anythin’ so uncertain and contrary, as you may say.”

He raised his field glasses and studied the ship again which lay without lights, like a derelict. He rose lazily and stretched himself.

The light glow in the west disappeared and left the earth but scantily lighted by a new moon. The surface of the water was dark, so that from the shore a rowboat could not be seen for a distance of more than fifty yards. Stubbs strolled towards the place where they had landed and took from his black bag a small lantern which he lighted and, after some searching, placed upon a small, flat rock which he discovered.

“Guess that will fetch ’em ’fore long,” he said.

But it was all of half an hour before the first boat came stealing out of the dark like a floating log. At sight of it Stubbs became a different man. He rose to his feet with the quick movement of a boy. His eyes took in every detail of the contents of the boat before it touched the shore. He was as alert as a watchdog. He turned to Wilson before he started towards this first cargo.

“’Member,” he warned,–“jus’ one thing to do,–git ’em aboard the ship yonder. If they git scared and balky, tell ’em they gut ter go now. Hol’ yerself steady and talk sharp.”

The boat, a large fishing dory, scraped the sand. It appeared loaded to the gunwales with the men and their kits. It had scarcely grounded before there was a scramble among the occupants and a fight to get ashore.

But once they had secured their traps, they gathered into a surly group and swore their discontent at the whole expedition. Into the midst of this Stubbs stamped and under pretence of gruff greeting to this one and that, together with much elbowing, broke the circle up into three parts. A dozen questions were shot at him, but he answered them with an assumption of authority that had a wholesome effect. In another minute he had picked out three of the most aggressive men and stationed them at different points on the island to look out for the other boats.

They came rapidly, and within half an hour the list was complete.

Wilson found that he was in about as tough a company as ever stepped out of a pirate story. They had evidently all been chosen with a regard for their physique, for they were all powerfully built men, ranging in age from twenty to forty. Most of them were only loafers about the wharves. There was not a seafaring man among them, for reasons which later were obvious enough to Wilson. It was clear that few of them were pleased with the first stage of their expedition, but they were forced to take it out in swearing. They swore at the dark, at the cold sea air, at the sand, at their luck, and, below their breath, at Stubbs, who had got them here. Two of them were drunk and sang maudlin songs in each other’s arms. But out of the grumbling babel of voices one question predominated.