Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 300, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 December 1915 — Page 2

NEAL of the NAVY

By William Hamilton Osborne,

AUTHOR OF "RED MOUSE’"RUNNING FIGHT’ “CATSPAW,"“BIUE BUCKLE," ETC. NOVELIZED FROM THE PHOTO PLAY OF THE SAME NAME PRODUCED BY PATHC EXCHANGE:. INC. COPYR/G/TT; £Y W/LL/Art HAff/L-TO/f CXS3OWE'

FIRST INSTALLMENT

PROLOGUE-THE SURVIVORS CHAPTER I. The Red Death. Capt. John Hardin of the Princess regarded the fast-receding coast line with unusual alarm. He shouted to his mate. “Welcher,” he cried, pointing aft, Hook at that. I've never seen old Pelee act that way before.” Welcher, the mate, a surly, sallowfaced, ill-conditioned fellow Ln unkempt uniform, followed with his eyes the captain's glance. ‘Gee whiz.” he said, “me neither.” “Ben,” exclaimed the captain, "she's •pitting fire. By Godfrey, that means death —death, I tell you, death.” This was back in 1902. The Princess, Captain Hardin’s boat, was a tramp steamer bound to New York from the city of St. Pierre, in the Island of Martinique, with a cargo of cocoa, coffee, sugar cane and cotton, and had been under way probably an hour. "You’re right, captain,” he returned. “Pelee means business this trip. Death is right” A feminine figure emerged from the shadow of the afterhouse and rushed forward toward the bridge. Behind her, following in her wake, raced two sturdy youngsters. One of these youngsters darted past her, swarmed upon the bridge and confronted the captain and his mate. He was Captain Hardin's boy, Neal —the only child. - -. The other boy was the mate's son, young Joey Welcher, sallow-faced and disagreeable like his father. With the roar of a thousand thunders Pelee bellowed forth “What are we going to do, Jack?" cried the captain’s young wife; “what are we going to do?" “Do?" returned the mate, before the captain could reply. “Put on more steam, that’s what we’ll do. We’re well out of that hell-hole yonder. An hour and we’d have been in the thick of it We’re well out of it, I tell you.’’ Captain Hardin applied his eye to his telescope once more. The boy upon his shoulder followed suit. “Welcher,” said the captain bravely, we’ve got to go back."

CHAPTER 11. The Lost Isle. On the same day—the day of the red death at Martinique—and but two short hours before the pilot put the helm of the tramp steamer Princess hard aport, three men sat on the veranda of a low-roofed, white-walled bungalow in St. Pierre. One of these men was Ilington, a young American. He passed around a box of fragrant Martinique cheroots. He folded up some half-dozen slips of paper he had been examining and returned them to.another individual who faced him from across the table. “Senor Hernandez,” exclaimed the young American, “for a week at least —half a hundred times —I have told you your credentials were satisfactory to me.” Hernandez nodded gravely. He thrust the papers back into a pocket and tapped them significantly. "None could be better,” he exclaimed grandiloquently, “I am Hernandez —that is all sufficient.” Suddenly the American turned and faced the third member of the coterie. “And what," he exclaimed, "what of Ponto here?” This third individual was the strangest creature of them all- He was a Mexican; dark, very dark; lowbrowed ; low-statured —and —fat. Hernandez nodded significantly. “Ponto, senor,” he returned, "is as good as gold. He, too, is brave.” "Will he do as I tell him?” queried the American. Hernande'S" bowed. *“You tell me, senor, and I tell him. He will obey." The American turned his back for a moment and Hernandez and Ponto exchanged significant glances. Ilington turned back to them. "It Is agreed,” he said, “I will take you on. To have brave men one must take a chance.” Ilington crossed the veranda and entered the living room, from there disappearing through another door. In a moment he was back, apparently empty -handed. Once more he seated himself and then drew from the hip pocket of his trousers a thin oilskin packet sealed with sealing wax. He laid it on the table before him. 1 eGentlemen,” he said, “I am the owner of the lost isle of Cinnabar. My forefathers held the grant direct from Spain. The lost isle of Cinnabar is a valuable isle. Tradition has it that upon it is located a quicksilver in in a an ancient mine but little -worked. My mission is to seek that island, to find it and to claim it for my own.” "Where is f^iw k»t island?” queried Ilington nodded. “The secret,” he returned, “Mas within this packet”

In a flash Ponto's hand darted like a black snake across the table to clutctf the packet in its grasp. The American, for all his hugeness, was quite as agile as the fat Ponto. He snatched the packet away just as Ponte’s fingers touched it. Ponto’s eyes reddened; his face flushed suddenly. He fingered the hilt of his knife and glanced toward Hernandes. “I will be careful to take small chance with you, friend Ponto,” said Ilington. He waved the packet toward Hernandez. "All in good time, senor,” he said. “The important question,” went on Ilington, “is this; Who is in possession of the lost isle of Cinnabar? It belongs to me. I have the paper title —at any rate I can obtain it, but whom must we eject when we arrive?" “Leave that to me,” said Hernandez. “We shall wipe them off the face of the earth —” A screen door swung open and a native woman gaudily arrayed in green and yellow stripes, her head bound around with a strip of orangecolored linen, slipped through the door leading with her a tiny girl —a child three or four years old. The child saw Ilington and ran tumultuously toward him, clasping his huge leg with her arms. “My daughter, gentlemen,” said Ilington. “She is all I have. Her mother died when she was born and when I die she will be the heiress to the lost isle of Cinnabar —perhaps the princess of a principality, who knows.” Manuella, her native nurse, carried her out into the narrow white and winding street, and together they half ran, half toddled down the hill. Ilington resumed his own chair and once more exhibited the oilskin packet. “The contents of this packet —possibly—will indicate the whereabouts of the lost isle of Cinnabar,” he said. “Suppose we take a chance.” “Break the seal, senor,” said Hernandez. Ilington started to obey—but some-t. thing happened. With the suddenness of a jaguar fleeing from the hunters, a man —half

Neal Hardin and the Heiress of the Lost island.

naked —bounded upon the veranda. “For the love of God,” he said, in broken French, "flee for your lives. Pelee has broken loose.” Ilington, with the oilskin packet still in hand, sprang to the edge of the veranda and from there into the street. He gave one look and then fell back. “By George, he's right” he shouted. “Look —look.” Anxiously he turned his gaze down the hill. Then with a bound he was off. In three minutes he was back clutching his little daughter, Annette, to his breast and dragging the frenzied Manuella after him. Shrieks from a thousand throats rent the air without Ilington glanced into the street His face went white. Ashes, red-hot pieces of molten lava were dropping in a shower. Ilington, who had been holding Annette, surrendered her in an instant to Manuella. He darted into an inner room and opened the safe. From this safe he took a canvas bag that jingled with the gold pieces it contained. He thrust this bag into one hip pocket of his trousers, having already secreted the oilskin packet in the other. “Come on,” he shouted to the group behind- him. "It’s death to stay here. Come on down the hill.” CHAPTER 111. Terror-Driven. All down that long steep hill —that swarming street filled with its rushing, frantic mob —Ilington fought his way with his back and brawny shoulders. Onoe, twice, he felt a stealthy hand at his hip pockets. Each time he turned swiftly to find Ponto and Her-, nandez close at his heels. Without

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, IND.

warning he slipped aside into a blind alley, and let the crowd slide by like a huge many-colored avalanche. When he joined the crowd again, Hernandez and his Aztec ally were ahead of him and not behind. “To the the sea” —the voice of the multitude raised itself in agony. There was but one cry—“to the sea—let me past —make room for me—to the sea—to the sea." At a crazy little wharf Ilington twitched himself and Manuella and the child deftly to one side and let the crowd plunge on. He scanned the surface of the bay, the fringe of shore. The bay was dotted with small boats, laden to the gunwales. The water was alive with swimmers. Ilington turned suddenly—at his side stood Hernandez. Ilington shook his head.

“There’s not a chance,” he said. “Senor Ilington,” said Hernandez, “you are Indeed fortunate to nave tied yourself to me. Always 1 have something up my sleeve.” He jerked his head. “Follow me,” he added. Ilington, wondering, followed, dragging Manuella with him. Swiftly the group moved along the water front —they fought their way inch by inch. Suddenly Hernandez darted out upon another wharf. “Stand in a circle,” he commanded, “and when I say the word —quick action. senor.” Then Hernandez stooped quickly and jerked back a trap door that had been fitted into the planking. “Quick,” he whispered, “drop.” He seized Manuella and dropped her through the opening. She screamed — this scream rose to a shriek when she struck the water. But her alarm was unwarranted. There was no danger—she stood waistdeep In water. Ponto followed with a leap—he knew his ground. Ilington lowered himself warily, to save .Innette from injury; clung for one instant to the edge of the opening with one brawny hand, and then dropped straight as a plummet. Hernandez followed suit, closing the trap door behind him. The closing of this door left them almost in total darkness. .'“Senor,” whispered Hernandez, “I have a boat. One moment, please.” He groped about and caught a rope tied to a pile. He drew it in, hand over hand. “In,” said Hernandez—“everybody in.” The group obeyed. The boat was small.

“Senor,” said Hernandez, “you are large —you are tall. See yonder ray of light—it Is an opening, just wide enough to admit of this small craft. Leap out, senor —draw us thither—it is the sole way to the sea.” Ilington dragged the boat through the narrow opening and swung back into his place. “I’ll row.” he said. Suddenly Hernandez pointed toward the north. “Look, senor,” he exclaimed, “succor —yonder is salvation.” Ilington followed his glance. His face lighted. “Salvation is right,” he returned in tones of relief, “a steamer —and, what’s more, she files the American flag. Good luck.” Under the command of her captain, Hardin, the Princess had steamed back into the rain of living fire to rescue whom she might. On the forward deck of the steamer stood Captain Hardin—and beside him his small son —to welcome refugees. And there were many refugees to welcome. % Captain Hardin soon saw he must discriminate. Finally he shook his head. “Ben,” he told his mate, “we’re filling up. Pick your crowd from now on—only the helpless—children, women, old men. Reject all others.” Welcher, with two of the crew behind him—both scared into a frenzyall armed with capstan bars —raised aloft his bludgeon. “No more—no more!” he cried. “I’ll brain the first man who tries to get aboard.” Suddenly above the din; a powerful voice was heard. “Ahoy, there, Princess,” cried this voice.

Weleher followed the sound. It came from the lungs of a powerfully built man rowing a leaky boat. "Make way there,” bellowed the oarsman, Ilington; "one moment, Princess. Where’s the captain?” Ilington seized his little daughter Annette and uncovered her head. "Never mind me,” he said. “I want refuge for this woman and the child.” Weleher was adamant. “Not another ounce of human flesh aboard this boat,” he said. There was a tug upon his arm. He turned. Little Neal Hardin, the captain's son, stood at attention and touched his cap. He pointed with one hand toward little Annette Ilington. “Please, Mr. Weleher,” he pleaded, "let her come aboard. She don’t weigh an ounce." The mate turned savagely upon the boy. “You mind your own business, brat,” he cried. The boy stared dt him a moment, then saluted and started off. “Yes, sir,” he returned, “that’s what I’m going to do.” He darted off on the run, and sought his father, Captain Hardin. “There's just one ounce—a little bit of an ounce—wants to come aboard, captain—pop.” he pleaded; “ a tween-ty-weenty little ounce. Won’t you let It qpme?” He dragged the captain forward. The captain, laughing good-naturedly, followed him. Meanwhile Ilington, with sure discrimination, placed the child in Manuella's arms once more, and forced the

Ponto’s Eyes Reddened; His Face Flushed Suddenly. He Fingered the Hilt of His Knife and Glanced Toward Hernandez.

native woman out upon the ladder. Manuella,” he kept whispering; “courage, Annette. They’ve got to help you out.” Captain Hardin leaned over the side. “Let the woman and child come aboard,” he shouted; “back there, men back. Welcher, let them come aboard.” “Ah-h-h,” cried Ilington in a tone of relief. With a final almost superhuman effort he lifted Manuella to the rail of the Princess, safely aboard. He was about to pass the child to her, but young Neal Hardin was holding out his arms. “I’m a good catch,” said young Neal; “put it there.” Ilington glanced for one Instant into the frank face of Neal Hardin and the captain of the ship. He drew a sigh of relief. He nodded swiftly.

“Whatever happens, thank God she is in good hands,” he said. Captain Hardin put his lips to his megaphone. “£ut her about there,” he shouted out; “full steam ahead.” Even as he said it there was a fresh shower of huge red cinders; some ash —some in molten state. There was an added cry of agony from shore and sea. Even the refugees aboard the ship cowered under the hail of fire in terror. Suddenly at the captain’s side Manuella, the native woman, uttered a gasp. A red-hot cinder of unusual size had smitten her upon the temple as she crouched low over little Annette Ilington. Clutching the captaip by the arm she fell prone upon the deck. Young Hardin sprang forward and caught the child before she fell. Manuella’s breath came fast —the thinnest portion of her skull had been pierced by the jagged edges of the cinder. Wild-eyed and frantic, but well realizing that she was upon the point of death, she caught young Neal by the blouse. «I die —you take baby —some day papa come —very —rich —” She said no more. The captain bent over her, rose and glanced at Welcher significantly. Then he turned to his young son Neal. “Take the little girl into our cabin, Neal,” he said. “Give her to your mother.” Neal clutched the warm bundle in his arms and staggered with it aft. As Mrs. Hardin unwound the shawl something dropped clinking to the cabin floor. Neal seized it and handed it to his mother. “It’s a bag of gold,” he said. No sooner had he said it than another object buttered to the floor — an oilsilk packet sealed with sealing wax. Mrs. Hardin placed the two upon a small stand set into the side wall of the cabin. She continued to unwind the shawl. Again they started. Pinned to the child’s dress was a crumpled piece of paper, and upon the piece of paper was a hastily penciled scrawl. Mrs. Hardin read it. This is what it said: “I am Annette Ilington, heiress of the lost isle of Cinnabar. I will be Very rich some day. Save my clothes and the oilskin packet until my father comes for me or until I am eighteen. I must look out for a man with a saber cut upon his face. For God s sake keep me safe.”

CHAPTER IV. After a Night of Fear. The three men —Ilington and his two companions—sat dejected in their badly leaking boat and watched Captain Hardin’s vessel fade away into the distance. Hernandez watched her keenly as she disappeared. Into the innermost recesses of his mind he tucked away the act that she was the steamer Princess of New York. Some day that knowledge would be of use. to him. Hot ashes brushed agaiW Ilington’s cheek; some rested on his shoulders. He shook himself like some huge mastiff. He seized the oars, "Come,” he said, "‘we've got to get out of this—and right away. This boat is filling fast.” “Go to It, senor,” said Hernandez. “Row.” It was not a request; it was a command. It was a strange thing that as long as Ilington had borne the child in his arms, Ilington had beep the leader of the three. Now his independence seemed to leave him. For hours he rowed—he forgot he was a human being. His oars rose and fell with the regularity of machine-

like movement. Suddenly Hernandez spoke. “Careful, senor,” he commanded. "Behold the surf.” He was quite right. They were crossing some bar well off the shore. Before they knew it they were in the midst of a tumult of wind-driven angry waves. Ponto shrieked. A wave towered high above them and fell with thunderous thud upon the bottom of their boat. She went under. “Come on,” cried Ilington; “a hand on each of my shoulders —I’ll take you safe ashore.” Half an hour later the three men staggered out of the battered surf and sank down exhausted upon a strip of beach. Dawn broke with Ilington still sleeping heavily. Ponto was the first to wake. He shook Hernandez, placing his finger on his. lips. Hernandez sprang up with the agility of a panther. He collected his faculties in an instant. He placed his hand upon the shoulder of the sleeping man and shook him. “Wake, senor,” he commanded; “it is day.” “Senor,” went on Hernandez, “let us resume our conversation —our talk of yesterday. Where is this lost island?” He thrust his face into the face of Ilington. “And where,” he demanded, “is the oil-silk packet?” “Where, also,” added Ponto, “is the bag of gold?” Ilington smiled. “So you have searched me, have you?” he returned. “Well, you’re welcome, gentlemen, to anything you find.” He rose to his feet. ‘'Come on,” he commanded, “we’re marooned. I’m hungry. Let us see what we can find.”

Hernandez caught him by the arm- “ Where is the packet?” he demanded. “And where the gold?” persisted Ponto. Ilington smiled. “Both traveling north,” he answered, “with Annette Ilington. They are confided to her care.” “And why?” asked Hernandez. Ilington shrugged his shoulders. “I thought you and I and Ponto here were booked for death, that’s why. Who knows—we may still be booked for death.” Hernandez glanced significantly at Ponto. “Some of us may,” he said. “Come on,” said Ilington, “there are mussels on those rocks yonder. Follow me.” He strode into the water and waded toward a patch of rocky reef beyond. Ponto seized a bit of jagged wood that lay upon the beach. He and Her nandez waded after Ilington. Once on the rocks Ilington stooped and tore huge shell fish from their moorings with his naked hands. As he did so Ponto in a sudden frenzy lifted high the billet in his hand and brought it with a crashing blow down upon the head of Ilington. Ilington fell like a log. Hernandez sprang at Ponto and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. “You fool,” he cried, “what do you gain by this?” “Wait,” exclaimed Ponto, clawing Ilington with his clutching talons; “let us search him thoroughly.” The search yielded nothing to them. “Fool,” repeated Hernandez, “you have done a useless thing. There’s always time I tell you.” Ponto shook his head. “Senor,” he said, “this man stood between us and the packet. . There is no one now to keep us from his child.” Hernandez slowly nodded. “True,” he returned, ‘“perhaps you are right. He was a menace —now he is dead. He is removed. Let us leave him to the mercy of the sea. Come on.” s “To the mercy of the sea,” these adventurers had said, and the sea was strangely merciful. With the tenderness of a mother it jived the limbs of the supine victim —it washed his wound —it laved his brow. It did more—it brought him back to life. Uttering an inarticulate cry, the man rose, staggering to his feet. He put his hand to the back of his head. It came away covered with blood. He stared at his ruddy fingers vacantly. “Red —red —” he babbled. He stared about him in bewilderment. -J. Babbling and cackling he rose once more U his feet. Some instinct led him toward the shore. He waded across the narrow strip of water, breast high, toward the narrow strip of beach beyond.

He reached the beach and darted zig-zag hither and thither, always babbling, always cackling. There was reason for thia. Somewhere in his skull there was a dent — a deep depression—made by the billet of wood that had struck him down. Ever and anon as he went he stroked the wound with the right hand and drew the hand away, covered with blood. “Red—red —” he babbled and went on. CHAPTER V. A Night With Flame. Young Neal Hardin was proud of his father’s boat, the Princess. He never ceased admiring her. There was no part of her he didn’t love. He was well assured. that she must hold the same fascination for other people as she did for him. He concluded that little Annette Ilington would fall desperately in love with his huge boat and ho escorted that young lady to all parts of the vessel —in fact, he walked her little legs off. They explored the lifeboats, the forward quarters of the crew; they visited the pilot; they climbed the bridge. Finally, they visited the hol£. It was well they did. Something had happened —and had happened on the day before while the Princess lay off Martinique. Cinders had fallen by the hundreds —a condition of affairs‘that the captain and his crew had well prepared for. It was impossible to be everywhere at once and a cinder —a live, red messenger of death —had taken advantage of this condition of affairs, had wormed its way unnoticed into the cotton cargo, and like a red-hot cancer had eaten in* to it with flame.

With just the slightest trace of excitement Neal drew the little girl to the deck and with her at his side sought and found his father and whispered to him. The captain stiffened as with shock; his face turned pale. He held up a hand and three members of the crew rushed to him. He gave hasty, whispered orders. In ten minutes the fire hose was laid out —men were working at the pumps. But in ten minutes something else had happened—the hold was filled with smoke. Huge tongues of flame were leaping heavenward, and in that same ten minutes panic took command — pandemonium reigned. "Abandon ship,” Hardin cried. “All hands to the boats! Women and children first.” Two days later a boatload of halfstarved refugees parched with thirst, chilled by the cold night and baked by the heat of day, were sighted by a cruiser of the navy. Half an hour afterwards its exhausted passengers clambered wearily but gratefully up the cruiser’s side.

The last of the refugees to leave the lifeboat and last of all save the lifeboat’s crew to reach the cruiser’s deck was young Neal Hardin. Clutched in his arms was the recumbent sleeping figure of little Annette Ilington. Mrs. Hardin was offered the commander’s cabin. She accepted with gratitude. She tucked Annette Ilington and Joey Welcher into their berths, but when she came to look for Neal, her young son, she found him missing. She searched for him- A seaman touched her on the arm. , “You’ll find him there, ma’am,” said the sailor. He pointed toward a group in a corner of the sleeping deck. The crew

Ponto in a Sudden Frizzy Lifted High the Billet in His Hands and Brought it Down.

were swinging hammocks ready for the night Mrs. Hardin listened. She heard the clear tones of her young son Neal. She hastened to the group and caught her offspring by the hand. “Mom,” he pleaded, “don’t” He pointed toward a hammock high above his head. “That’s where I’m going to sleep—just once —tonight” A seaman touched his cap and grinned. “He’s a sailor from the ground up, ma’am,” he said. “You can’t make him anything else if you was to try a hundred years.” All through that long night a woman lay, wide-eyed, with dumb agony within her heart She didn’t know —she couldn’t know —that Capt John Hardin was exploring the depths unknown with a knife sunk between his shoulder blades Ly his mate, Welcher. But she knew ‘that she would never lay eyes upon him more —never feel the clasp of his hand, nor ms kiss upon her lips, nor his strong arms about her —never in this world again. k / (TO BE CONTINUED.)