Never-Fail Blake Part 16

He climbed cautiously up the slowly swaying steps, standing for a puzzled moment at the top and peering about him. Then he crept along the deserted deck, where a month of utter idleness, apparently, had left discipline relaxed. He s.h.i.+ed away from the lights, here and there, that dazzled his eyes after his long hours of darkness. With an instinct not unlike that which drives the hiding wharf-rat into the deepest corner at hand, he made his way down through the body of the s.h.i.+p. He shambled and skulked his way down, a hatless and ragged and uncouth figure, wandering on along gloomy gangways and corridors until he found himself on the threshold of the engine-room itself.

He was about to back out of this entrance and strike still deeper when he found himself confronted by an engineer smoking a short brier-root pipe. The pale blue eyes of this sandy-headed engineer were wide with wonder, startled and incredulous wonder, as they stared at the ragged figure in the doorway.

"Where in the name o' G.o.d did _you_ come from?" demanded the man with the brier-root pipe.

"I came out from Guayaquil," answered Blake, reaching searchingly down in his wet pocket. "And I can't go back."

The sandy-headed man backed away.

"From the fever camps?"

Blake could afford to smile at the movement.

"Don't worry--there 's no fever 'round me. _That 's_ what I 've been through!" And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered coat-cloth.

"How'd you get here?"

"Rowed out in a surf-boat--and I can't go back!"

The sandy-headed engineer continued to stare at the uncouth figure in front of him, to stare at it with vague and impersonal wonder. And in facing that sandy-headed stranger, Blake knew, he was facing a judge whose decision was to be of vast moment in his future destiny, whose word, perhaps, was to decide on the success or failure of much wandering about the earth.

"I can't go back!" repeated Blake, as he reached out and dropped a clutter of gold into the palm of the other man. The pale blue eyes looked at the gold, looked out along the gangway, and then looked back at the waiting stranger.

"That Alfaro gang after you?" he inquired.

"They 're _all_ after me!" answered the swaying figure in rags. They were talking together, by this time, almost in whispers, like two conspirators. The young engineer seemed puzzled. But a wave of relief swept through Blake when in the pale blue eyes he saw almost a look of pity.

"What d' you want me to do?" he finally asked.

Blake, instead of answering that question, asked another.

"When do you move out of here?"

The engineer put the coins in his pocket.

"Before noon to-morrow, thank G.o.d! The _Yorktown_ ought to be here by morning--she 's to give us our release!"

"Then you'll sail by noon?"

"We 've _got_ to! They 've tied us up here over a month, without reason. They worked that old yellow-jack gag--and not a touch of fever aboard all that time!"

A great wave of contentment surged through Blake's weary body. He put his hand up on the smaller man's shoulder.

"Then you just get me out o' sight until we 're off, and I 'll fix things so you 'll never be sorry for it!"

The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. Then he studied the figure in front of him.

"There's nothing crooked behind this?"

Blake forced a laugh from his weary lungs. "I 'll prove that in two days by wireless--and pay first-cla.s.s pa.s.sage to the next port of call!"

"I 'm fourth engineer on board here, and the Old Man would sure fire me, if--"

"But you needn't even know about me," contended Blake. "Just let me crawl in somewhere where I can sleep!"

"You need it, all right, by that face of yours!"

"I sure do," acknowledged the other as he stood awaiting his judge's decision.

"Then I 'd better get you down to my bunk. But remember, I can only stow you there until we get under way--perhaps not that long!"

He stepped cautiously out and looked along the gangway. "This is your funeral, mind, when the row comes. You 've got to face that, yourself!"

"Oh, I 'll face it, all right!" was Blake's calmly contented answer.

"All I want now is about nine hours' sleep!"

"Come on, then," said the fourth engineer. And Blake followed after as he started deeper down into the body of the s.h.i.+p. And already, deep below him, he could hear the stokers at work in their hole.

XIV

After seven cataleptic hours of unbroken sleep Blake awakened to find his shoulder being prodded and shaken by the pale-eyed fourth engineer.

The stowaway's tired body, during that sleep, had soaked in renewed strength as a squeezed sponge soaks up water. He could afford to blink with impa.s.sive eyes up at the troubled face of the young man wearing the oil-stained cap.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, awakening to a luxurious comprehension of where he was and what he had escaped. Then he sat up in the narrow berth, for it began to dawn on him that the engines of the _Trunella_ were not in motion. "Why are n't we under way?"

"They 're having trouble up there, with the _Commandante_. We can't get off inside of an hour--and anything's likely to happen in that time. That's why I 've got to get you out of here!"

"Where 'll you get me?" asked Blake. He was on his feet by this time, arraying himself in his wet and ragged clothing.

"That's what I 've been talking over with the Chief," began the young engineer. Blake wheeled about and fixed him with his eye.

"Did you let your Chief in on this?" he demanded, and he found it hard to keep his anger in check.

"I had to let him in on it," complained the other. "If it came to a hue up or a searching party through here, they 'd spot you first thing.

You 're not a pa.s.senger; you 're not signed; you're not anything!"

"Well, supposing I 'm not?"

"Then they 'd haul you back and give you a half year in that _Lazaretto_ o' theirs!"

"Well, what do I have to do to keep from being hauled back?"

"You 'll have to be one o' the workin' crew, until we get off. The Chief says that, and I think he's right!"

A vague foreboding filled Blake's soul. He had imagined that the ignominy and agony of physical labor was a thing of the past with him.

And he was still sore in every sinew and muscle of his huge body.