Salvage

Author of “Mr. Catlin’s Weakness,” “Widders Come First,” Etc.

Captain Drake again proves, and this time most brilliantly, his right to the title: “The Opportunist.” With remarkable sagacity he scents an opportunity on the wind.

Piræus, that historical port of Greece, lay drenched and sweltering in sunshine. Its great water front, whence galleys had sailed bravely forth in ancient days, was packed with shipping, most of it idle; for trade was in the doldrums. Docked between two big “smoke boats” lay the very trim and neat steam schooner, Malabart, Captain Eli Drake, owner and commander; and there was nothing in the Malabart’s physical appearance to indicate that she, too, was yawning for a cargo of any sort, or to any port, though the charter rate might be so low as to barely pay expenses. Captain Drake, whose sobriquet of “The Old Hyena” had survived the days of sail, was ashore, harassed by cares.

He had been eating into capital to keep his ship in commission, and his crew, which he had gathered in the course of many years, from being disbanded. He prized his crew and, after his ship, they came first in his affections. In quest of cargo--any cargo--he had scoured the port, made daily trips over the short drive to Athens, and spent liberal sums on cablegrams to many agents, without avail. He felt like cursing the big steamship companies, which, with their army of organized runners, were rapidly driving the independent owners and tramps off the seas.

In a mood of sullen obstinacy he had tramped almost the length of the docks when, unexpectedly, he heard the clatter of a cargo winch; and the sound was so unusual that, like a magnet, it drew him in its direction. He found a rusty tramp that was lading.

“Now what--how did I miss getting that cargo?” he reflected. “The Rhodialim, eh?” And after a moment’s thought he muttered: “Oh, yes. Belongs to that firm of Hakim & Letin. Got her and one other schooner, doing mostly Levantine and East African coast trade. Wish I could have got that cargo. My luck’s out.”

Without thinking, or observing that at the dock gates there was a watchman, who, at the moment, had his back turned and was in voluble altercation with one of his countrymen, Captain Eli strolled inward. He finally halted, and with hands in pockets stared, suddenly discovering something else that made him curious.

“That’s blamed funny!” he thought. “Big cases marked ‘Mining machinery,’ but a couple of stevedores chuck ’em into the slings as if they were empty. Also cases of merchandise put up like heavy prints that seem just as light, and as---- Good Lord! Up there on the bridge! If that ain’t Bill Morris, I’m dotty. So he’s got a ship out here, eh, after it got too hot for him about everywhere else on salt water! Lost two ships in the Pacific trade, under mighty suspicious circumstances, and had his ticket taken away, last I heard of him. Ummh! Ten or twelve years ago, that was. So he’s skipperin’ this craft, eh? If him and me hadn’t locked spars two or three times, I’d go over and rile him up with a leetle light, airy banter. I guess he’s----”

“Hey you! Got any business here? How’d you get past me at the gate?” a voice disturbed him. And although the fellow spoke bastard Greek, Drake, who, with a sailor’s facility, had picked up considerable of the tongue, understood, and turned to see the watchman glowering at him.

“Why?” he asked. “Can’t anybody come onto your dock? Nothing secret about it, is there?”

The watchman sputtered something about none without a pass from Hakim & Letin being allowed in, and somewhat peremptorily ordered Drake to clear out. Not being accustomed to such treatment, disgruntled, affronted, but recognizing the weakness of his position and the futility of retort, Drake turned and, swearing under his breath, obeyed.

It is possible that the episode might have passed from his mind entirely, but for an encounter that followed some hours later, when, just as he was turning toward the Malabart, a man whose face bore the almost indelible stamp of the engine rooms of ships, with grease worked deeply into the pores of the skin, respectfully touched his cap peak and accosted him in fairly good, though accented, English.

“Captain Drake,” he said. “Excuse me, sir, for stopping you, but I am a good man out of work, and want a job on your ship, sir.”

“Sorry, my man, but we’re full up,” Captain Eli replied. “Too full,” he added, and would have proceeded on his way, had not the applicant insisted.

“I am good man, sir. First-class engineer; but I would take anything in your engine room. Because me, I have big family, and ships are all full now, it seems to me, sir. I lose job when not my fault. Not at all. When I took engines of ship Rhodialim anybody tell you they scrap heap. I make ’em good. And now, without word, since that Captain Bill Morris come, I am fired. He say have his own engineer and----”

“Huh? What’s that?” Captain Eli, who had been slowly moving forward with the insistent one at his side, stopped and stared at the man. “Do you happen to know the name of the new engineer?”

“It is Simmons, or Simons, or something like that.”

Drake’s mouth pursed itself as if to whistle an exclamation, and for a moment he stood absent-mindedly staring at the stones beneath his feet. But his thought ran: “Simmons! Simmons! That was the engineer of the ship that Bill lost last, and he was one of the chief witnesses at the insurance investigation. Something funny about this business!”

He abruptly started away, saying as he did so: “You come on board with me, and I’ll learn if there’s anything can be done. Let me see your ticket.” And then, a moment later: “Beltramo--Giuseppe Beltramo is your name, eh? And your ticket shows a long, clean record. No wonder they didn’t want you on that boat. Never mind the questions, now. I’ll ask all the questions myself.”

As a rule the relations between Captain Eli Drake and his chief mate, William Catlin, were of two separate characters, inasmuch as afloat they observed the distinctions in station and Drake brooked no interference; but it was well known that ashore they were more intimate than brothers usually are, and confidants in nearly everything. Hence, when the commander sent for Catlin upon his arrival aboard, and on his entry into the cabin addressed him as “Bill,” Catlin thought: “Something’s turned up.” Aloud he said:

“Landed something, skipper?”

“Landed enough to set me to a heap of thinking, Bill,” Drake said. And then he bent forward and in a confidential tone told of his experiences, ending with: “It seems to me there’s some sort of a job being put up by Hakim & Letin; and--well, there might be some way for us to make something out of it.”

“Sort of an opportunity, eh?” Catlin grinned, remembering that the Cape Cod man had earned the reputation of being an opportunist. “Maybe you can see one, but I can’t. Don’t mind my thick-headedness. I can get anything when it’s explained, all right.”

But Drake seemed to have become absorbed in some thought of his own. He stared absently through the cloud of pipe smoke; and finally chuckled, as if he had reached a solution of some problem.

“I think I sort of grab an idea,” he said at last, getting to his feet. “You’re a hell of a good friend, Bill, but as a helper in working out a puzzle you don’t amount to much. Never mind. Think I got it, myself. So just talking it over with you did have some use, after all. You go down and keep that feller I brought aboard interested, while I slip below and see the chief. Most likely be in his cabin, I expect.”

They went out together and Drake sought the engineer.

“Forbes,” he said to that gray-haired veteran. “Can you find something for an engineer out of a job to do for a few days?”

“Can’t find enough to do myself, let alone make work for a new man. If this keeps up---- Hold on. While I think of it, that chap Flint, my third, asked me to-day if I thought there was a chance for him in the navy. Now if he got a month off to go to the nearest place he could pass his examinations and file his application----”

“The sure-enough right thing! Let him take a month, and put this feller on until Flint comes back. Come on up topside and talk to him.”

The result of the conversation was that two men, at least, were made happy that evening--Flint, who had got unexpected leave for a month, and Beltramo, who had got a temporary billet.

But Drake was not on the ship when the shift was made. In the roughest suit of clothes he could muster he had gone ashore and made his way to a not too-clean bar, where he knew that pilots were wont to gather. There he patiently waited for the arrival of one he knew. The man came at last, and Captain Eli drew him into a little private room at the rear.

“Christophe,” Captain Eli said, “I have done you a favor once or twice, and you’re the kind of man that likes to repay. Well, the time has come when you may be of use. Now first, you’ve got to keep your mouth shut--not one word--not one word to anybody, not even your wife, of what we say here in this room.”

The pilot, whose face was seamed with years and sea service, promptly lifted his hand and swore an oath that would have satisfied any band of conspirators that ever existed.

“First, you know this sea as well as any one, I take it?”

“By Heaven! Better than all save one or two. Was I not a fisherman in these waters when old enough to float? I know every foot of it and every reef, and every island and----”

“Good!” Captain Eli interrupted. He leaned across the little table between them and lowered his voice. “Christophe, if you were going to sink a ship that was supposed to be bound eastward--say for Jaffa--where would you do it?”

For a moment the pilot’s mouth hung open and his eyes were wide, as if he feared for Drake’s sanity.

“But, sir, captain--you--you are not going to sink---- You don’t mean that----”

“No, of course not! I sink nothing. But you think it over carefully and answer my questions,” Drake continued. And the pilot, still wondering, slowly lowered his eyes, shut them as if to ponder such a case, and then asked: “What time of year, captain?”

“This time of year,” Drake replied.