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Roy Glashan's Library
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James Francis Dwyer
JAMES FRANCIS DWYER (1874-1952) was an Australian writer. Born in Camden Park, New South Wales, Dwyer worked as a postal assistant until he was convicted in a scheme to make fraudulent postal orders and sentenced to seven years imprisonment in 1899. In prison, Dwyer began writing, and with the help of another inmate and a prison guard, had his work published in The Bulletin. After completing his sentence, he relocated to London and then New York, where he established a successful career as a writer of short stories and novels. Dwyer later moved to France, where he wrote his autobiography, Leg-Irons on Wings, in 1949. Dwyer wrote over 1,000 short stories during his career, and was the first Australian-born person to become a millionaire from writing. —Wikipedia
The Blue Book Magazine, May 1922, with "Dynamite Sims and the Princess"
POSSIBLY the logical opening of this story would be an interview that took place in Helena, Montana, in the summer of 1920 between a millionaire copper king and John Preston, known as "Always-find-'em" Preston, the best operative on the force of a noted detective agency.
The Helena millionaire had been given six months' lease of life by a Chicago doctor who had been rushed westward by a special train, and after the great doctor had pronounced his verdict, the millionaire sent for Preston. He asked Preston to—But hold on: what he asked Preston to do must wait, or this story, as a story, would be absolutely ruined. Successful stories, like successful bank robberies, depend so much on the manner in which one breaks in.
The Vieux Port is the Bowery of Marseilles, and that isn't saying anything kind about our Bowery in its very worst days. Marseilles holds the belt in the Dirtiest-Port-in-Europe competition, and the Vieux Port is the wicked left that lands the cincture. A French scientist has tried to prove that the war was prolonged by man's natural dislike to bathing—a dislike combated by the females of his family when he is at home; and the untidy, filthy soldiers of all shades of brown and black that parade the Vieux Port make one ponder over the scientist's claim.
In a shooting-gallery in this quarter on a night in the fall of 1920, two men were noticeable in the packed mass. The two stood head and shoulders over the Annamese, Senegalese, French, Chinese and Russians that filled the place. They were strangers to each other. The younger, who stood close to the barrier, was a splendidly built man, well over six feet. His strong, muscular shoulders were made prominent by a close-fitting silk shirt; and a Pike's Peak felt hat, set at a rakish angle, proclaimed the fact that his pays d'origine was something over three thousand miles from grimy Marseilles.
The other was quite as tall but not so picturesque. He was dressed in close-fitting serge and wore a naval cap without a badge. He had stepped into the gallery for a moment, had caught sight of the young giant and had stayed.
The sport waned for a moment, and the proprietor of the place sought to promote business. He lifted a rifle and shook it at the youngster with the sombrero.
"Voulez vous essayer, monsieur?" he inquired.
The young giant grinned, pushed his way to the barrier and took the proffered weapon. He held it at arm's-length, and without making any noticeable efforts at sighting, fired ten times in rapid succession. The serge-clad man in the rear was interested. He thrust himself forward as the proprietor pulled a string and brought the cardboard target from the rear of the gallery. A rather sorry target! The black bull's-eye had been eaten completely away by the storm of lead that had whistled through it!
The proprietor tossed a pencil to the shooter and placed the target on the counter.
"Prière d'écrire votre nom, monsieur" he cried. "Vous êtes un bon tireur!"
The young giant leaned over and wrote slowly. The serge-clad man read what he wrote. The serge-clad man was amused. He was possibly the only person in the place who could read English, and so the humor of the caption was for him alone. The shooter had written:
There's only one country in the world and anyone that is there is a fool to leave it.
Dynamite Sims.
AT Basso's, on the Quai de la Fraternité, they make bouillabaisse so that the gods weep because they are not mortals. It is the specialty of Marseilles, extolled by Thackeray. It is a thick soup, made of fish boiled in oil, flavored with laurel leaves, onions, garlic and tomatoes, and colored with saffron. The soup is poured on slices of bread, and the fish served separately.
Dynamite Sims and Captain Ezra Haynes, the two tall men of the shooting gallery, sat before a great bowl of bouillabaisse and talked, while a large-eared student of the École des Beaux-Arts, sitting at the next table, listened in amazement. The student had been wrestling with English for three years, and he realized, as he listened, how little he had learned.
"I'm riding range for Old Man Poverty," explained Mr. Dynamite Sims. "This is a sheep-man's dump, and I can't raise chuck."
"How do you view salt water?" asked Captain Ezra Haynes, the host of the occasion.
Mr. Sims speared a section of fish and answered slowly. "Friend, in the archives of our family there is only one geek who liked bucking waves in preference to bucking cayuses. He lived away back. His name was Noah."
"But this is more like a pleasure-cruise," said Captain Ezra Haynes.
"There aint no such thing as a pleasure-cruise," snapped the younger man. "They overworked those words when they were bringing us over to France."
CAPTAIN HAYNES pushed his plate aside and placed his elbows on the table. "Listen to me," he said belligerently. "I came ashore this evening thinking I could buy a machine-gun. I dropped into that gallery an' saw you tear the heart out o' that target without lookin' at it. I thought why bother about the machine-gun."
Mr. Sims smiled softly. "I could shoot once," he said modestly.
"You might recover your form if you had a sea-trip," remarked Captain Haynes. "Doctors order sea-trips for folks that are a little off. Now, this excursion of mine—" He lowered his voice so that the big-eared student was thrust into the silence. Now and then the excited interruptions of Mr. Sims shot up like sound-geysers in the quiet, hushed flow of the Captain's story. The student clutched at them vainly.
"Gee whillikins! A real live princess!" cried Sims. "Oh, man, man!"
And again. "Bolshies, eh? Hog-tied a bunch o' 'em in Arizony once, an' run 'em out o' town. I love Bolshies."
The student could see that Mr. Sims was becoming interested in the proposition—much interested. He made curious little noises and clicked his heels from time to time.
The Captain raised his voice.
"Nothing to do," he cried. "Just ambulate up and down with your ironmongery loose an' watch. We're two Americans with sixteen polecats; but polecats is polecats."
Mr. Sims spoke after a moment's reflection. "I've got three shirts an' some postcards an' things at a place on the Cours Belsunce," he observed.
"We'll go get them," snapped the Captain, signaling for his bill. "We can get out on the twelve o'clock tide."
DYNAMITE SIMS was on deck at five on the morning following the departure of the barque La Ciotat from Marseilles. He looked a queer figure as he walked up and down. La Ciotat was plowing down toward Corsica under a ten-knot wind, and this wind got under the brim of the felt hat and sought to toss it into the sea. It annoyed the wearer greatly.
The ship was very quiet. Mr. Sims reviewed the story told him by the Captain at Basso's on the previous evening, and he wondered if Haynes had not exaggerated the dangers of the voyage. He, Mr. Sims, would be depressed if Captain Haynes had overestimated the viciousness of his hurriedly gathered crew; and in an effort to find comfort in seeing on their faces hints, of mutinies to come, Dynamite sat upon a hatch-cover and studied them as they passed.
An unprepossessing lot, certainly. They were small, weedy and dirty. Very dirty! They glanced furtively at the big American and passed whispered comments about him as their duties brought them together. Dynamite Sims nailed his observations down with simple remarks.
"Sheep-lice, every mother's son o' 'em!" he growled.
He took off his sombrero and stroked it carefully. "They look mean enough to rob a blind cattle-pup of his milk," he continued. "I guess the old man was right. If signs count for anything, this bunch is a high class propagating bed for murder in its lowest forms."
The first and second mate of La Ciotat were very little different from the crew. Dynamite Sims admitted they were a little taller and a little cleaner, but he doubted if their moral standards were one millimeter above those of the crew. The two mates saluted Mr. Sims, and the cowboy responded with a "Howdy," given in what he termed his "neutral but watchful" voice.
MR. SIMS had just concluded his summing up when trouble boarded La Ciotat. Dynamite heard a little feminine shriek of alarm, and sprang from the hatch-cover. He glared around and immediately located the person who had given voice to her fear. An extraordinarily beautiful person, to the eyes of Dynamite Sims! She stood on the port side, her back against the bulwarks, and in front of her, truculence and intimidation apparent in his manner, was a particularly frowsy and repulsive member of the crew. He was a black and bearded ruffian who had examined Dynamite with no friendly eye when the American first came on deck.
The long legs of Mr. Sims ate up the intervening space. He came up in the rear of the unwashed one, who was delivering to the startled female an address in a language of which the cowboy was ignorant. Mentally, as he hurled himself across the deck, he classed it as "Bolshie lingo," and although he did not recognize a word, his ears told him forcibly that it was no address of welcome that the seaman was delivering. The lady's face told the advancing American that she was under a verbal fusillade delivered in an effort to shoot holes in any belief that she had in her respectability, honesty, breeding and all other consoling and abstract virtues to which decent people cling.
The right hand of Mr. Sims shot out and clutched the thick jacket of the orator—clutched a splendid handful of it at a point between the shoulders. Dynamite stiffened his arm till it had the lifting capacity of a husky crane. He whirled on his heels, and the frowsy one was carried a quarter circle at terrific speed and then suddenly unloosed so that he could take full advantage of the collected momentum.
He did so. When Dynamite's fingers unloosed him, he traveled along the holystoned deck of La Ciotat till he met a rusty anchor-chain coiled cobra-like, with great unfriendly links, deep-bitten by sea water. The flying one thrust his face along the rust-gnawed surface, and howled as he attempted to claw himself to a standstill.
Mr. Sims took off his hat and bowed. He felt strangely awed in the presence of the lady. The first impressions he had formed of her beauty received additional furbishings now that the obstruction formed by the unwashed sailor was removed. It was rather strange and mystical beauty to Sims. He felt a little awed in her presence, a little frightened of her magnolia-like whiteness and spirituality. He fought against a sudden and absolutely ridiculous belief that came to him as he gazed at her. Her whiteness made him, for a few moments at least, feel certain that he was as filthy as the crew of La Ciotat.
She spoke at last. At least, Mr. Sims thought that the sweet, sweet whisper of sound came from the chiseled lips. "Merci," she murmured; then again, after her big, startled eyes had taken in the un-Gallic points of the cowboy's costume, she breathed. "Thank you! Oh, thank you so, so much!"
"It was nothing," stammered Dynamite, certain now that he was addressing the princess of whom Captain Ezra Haynes had spoken over the bouillabaisse at Basso's. "It was only a—"
Mr. Sims' denial of effort was cut short by the frowsy offender. He had scrambled to his feet, and fully aware of the damage which the anchor-chain had done to his face, he had drawn a knife and rushed with a howl of rage at the cowboy.
Dynamite Sims turned to meet the rush, and discovered that half a dozen of the sailor's companions had slouched up to see the fun. Sims acted promptly. He drew a gun, and the effect produced by his action was weird. It reminded Dynamite of an incident in Marseilles when an officious police officer had asked him to produce his carte d'identité. He, Sims, had reached for his rear pocket, where he carried the paper; and the action, so impressed upon the minds of the loungers by American films as the immediate preliminary to trouble, caused every person in the immediate neighborhood to seek cover!
THE charging knife-man on the deck of La Ciotat tried to halt himself as the six-shooter was thrust out to meet his rush. His bare feet skidded on the boards as his head and body were flung back in an attempt to halt the galloping legs. He slipped, fell upon his back, rolled over, picked himself up; and with queer whimpers that expressed his terror, he fled in the direction of the forecastle!
Mr. Sims glanced around at the man's slouching companions. They too had fled, taking advantage of all available cover as they went.
The American thrust the gun shamefacedly out of sight. He stood, a strong muscular figure, twirling the big sombrero, his eyes upon the woman leaning against the bulwarks. At last, in an effort to brush away all traces of an unpleasant situation, he addressed himself to the vision.
"It's—it's some morning, isn't it?" he observed. "Most times I just hate the sea like poison, but when it sits still like this, I can stand it."
The wonderful woman smiled. "It is a beautiful morning, monsieur," she murmured; then after a little pause, she added: "I don't suppose I look like an American, but I am really half American. My father married a lady from Baltimore when he visited the United States years before I was born."
RUMORS of the rumpus came to the ears of Captain Ezra Haynes a few moments after the glimpse of Dynamite's revolver had caused the stampede, and the Captain rushed on deck, barefooted and half dressed. He was astounded to find Mr. Sims and the Princess sitting side by side on the hatch-cover, each evidently much interested in the conversation of the other, while upon the ship there rested a sweet and holy calm. The Captain, with a little exclamation of astonishment, turned and softly tiptoed below to complete his toilet.
Mr. Sims, at the moment the Captain came upon deck, was answering a question put by the Princess regarding his status on the ship.
"I'm not holding down any particular old job," he explained. "I'm what you might call a human gyroscope brought aboard to preserve the equilibrium. They use 'em on airplanes and things so that one end of the show wont tip up and make a mess of things. The Captain met me last evening and suggested that I come along, and I came."
"Then you're not an officer?" inquired the young lady, astonishment apparent in her voice.
"Not yet," answered Mr. Sims. "I'm a plain buck private at present, but if the Captain dies and the two little officers die, why I might get a bar or something."
"Do you—do you understand navigation?" asked the beautiful one.
"On land you can't beat me," said Mr. Sims confidently, "but at sea, miss, I know no more about navigation than a hen does about driving an automobile. On land there's trees and rocks an' mountains to steer by, but on the sea there's only little lumps of water that disappear if you turn your head for a minute."
The Princess studied the face of Mr. Sims for a time, studied it thoughtfully. It was a rather strong and intelligent face. The eyes were honest blue eyes set well apart; the nose was well shaped; the humorous mouth balanced a chin that showed more than the ordinary amount of determination. Suddenly she spoke. It was a curious impulsive statement that startled Dynamite.
"I believe you—you could do anything on a ship if you wanted to!" she cried. "I mean you could—you could do anything that other men could do. You could steer and—and pull the sails up and down."
Dynamite Sims turned and stared at the beautiful one. He was thrilled exceedingly.
"Why do you think that?" he asked.
"I don't know," murmured the young woman. "I just thought that you—oh, let me tell you! I saw these—these awful sailors last evening, and I was afraid. Dreadfully afraid! I know the Captain is a brave man, but—but there are so many of these sailors. I talked with my father and begged him to wait, but he would not. Did—did Captain Haynes tell you why?"
"No, miss," answered Dynamite. "He told me that he was taking a Russian prince and his daughter out of France to some place in Africa, and that he didn't like his crew."
"Yes, yes; but there's more to tell you!" cried the Princess. "My father was a friend of the Allies. He fought the Soviet. There was a price on his head. He fled to Constantinople, and then we came up by a little tramp steamer to Marseilles. They—the agents of Lenine followed. Father's fear of assassination made it impossible for him to sleep. Then—then he thought of going away to some place where he would not be known and—and he hired this boat. Now you know all. My—my mother was an American and—and I have faith in you."
The young woman rose; and Dynamite Sims, hat in hand, stood up beside her.
"I'm glad I came," be said simply. "Awful glad! If this bunch starts to cut up, miss, I'll be around somewhere handy. I sure will."
"Thank you," she murmured. "I'm so glad that you are here. I'll go below now, and tell Father."
IT was late that afternoon when Captain Ezra Haynes signaled to Dynamite Sims his desire for a private parley. Mr. Sims followed the Captain to his cabin, and Haynes unbosomed himself.
"There's a liar in that fo'c'stle that's a mutiny-starter for sure," he growled. "An awful smart liar! The old Prince has a big brass-bound trunk that weighs about half a ton, and this sea-son of Ananias has spread a tale about it that's got 'em all drooling at the mouth."
"What's he said?" asked Dynamite.
"Told 'em its chock full of gold!" gasped the Captain. "Full of gold rubles! Says the old chap smuggled it out o' Russia! They're crazy about it! That one-eyed sailor just tipped me off. They're going to make a try for it. Talking open mutiny! He says they're going after the big box, an' they're going quick—tonight, I guess.
"And the mates?" questioned Dynamite.
"Son," said Captain Ezra Haynes, "the night I met up with you in Marseilles, I told you I was thinkin' of buying a machine-gun. Well, if I had one, I'd cut loose on all hands, mates and sailors. The war has knocked honesty on the head. I've just chinned one of these bat-eyed officers that's helping me run this tub, an' he wonders if it wouldn't be a good idea to get the brass-bound trunk off the Prince and turn it over to these polecats in the fo'c'stle. Says it would save trouble."
"It might," murmured Dynamite Sims, "but saving trouble in that way doesn't pay. It reminds me of a chap who gave his last lump of beef to a tiger who was following him and got so weak from want of food that the tiger caught up with him and chawed him up. I'm always for eating the beef an' then wrestlin' to see who's the best man. What about the Princess?"
"I'll tell her what's in the wind," said Captain Haynes. "It's out of the question to say anything to the old man. He's nearly off his head now. Those brutes of Bolsheviks tortured him, and he's crazy with fear. Keep your eyes open, wont you?"
"I will," said Dynamite Sims softly. "It sort of annoys me to think a bunch of polecats like them would attempt anything risky; but then, I've always heard that salt water has a funny effect on people. Anyhow, when they start, I'll be somewhere in the front trenches."
AN hour later the Princess beckoned Dynamite Sims as he stepped out of his own little cabin. Her face was white, but she showed no fear.
"I want you to see something," she said softly. "Please come this way. Step gently."
On tiptoes she led the big American to the door of the stuffy cabin occupied by her father. The door was ajar, and she signaled Dynamite Sims to look within.
Sims stepped quietly forward and peeped. An old man with a white beard was sitting before an opened trunk, the trunk that had caused the commotion in the fo'c'stle, and his long, thin fingers were busy smoothing pieces of soft lace and silk that the trunk contained. He heard nothing, and Dynamite watching him intently, felt that he was in a little world of his own, a million miles away from La Ciotat and the hectic atmosphere that surrounded the barque.
Dynamite tiptoed away, and at the end of the passage the girl explained.
"They are little things of my mother's," she said simply. "He loved her greatly. It was his worry over the trunk and its contents that, has made those foolish sailors think it contains gold. It is more than gold to him. In it are my mother's wedding-dress and—and many little things that she wore."
Dynamite Sims left her without speaking. He went up on deck to study the atmosphere. He stood leaning against the bulwarks till the soft night crept down upon the ship—a soft, moonless night with a sky of that wonderful dark, dark blue that only the Mediterranean knows.
IT was a little after four bells when the attack began. The deck of La Ciotat was dark and mysterious. The god of the shadows had made encampments upon it, encampments that were disturbed at occasional moments by the frightened gleam of a lamp.
Captain Ezra Haynes and Dynamite Sims had taken up positions near the companion stairs. The Princess and her father were in their cabins. The barque rolled along under a soft breeze that came across from the Gulf of Lyons.
It was Sims that sensed the approach of the mutinous crew. His keen ears detected the padding of many bare feet upon the deck, and he gently nudged the Captain to acquaint him of the nearness of trouble.
Haynes, foolishly courageous, rose from the shadow patch and peered forward. The soft padding of the approaching sailors immediately ceased. The whine of the straining rigging, the rattling of an unsecured pan in the galley, and the soft slap of the Mediterranean's baby waves were the only sounds that disturbed the silence.
Captain Ezra Haynes flung an inquiry at the darkness. "Who's there?" he questioned.
THERE was no answer to the query. Dynamite Sims, distrustful of the silence, reached out to pull Haynes back under cover, but he was too late. Something whistled through the darkness; and the Captain, with a little grunt of pain, staggered and fell upon his knees.
Dynamite Sims, eyes slitted and fixed upon the danger spot, supported the Captain with his left hand. He guessed what had happened before Haynes whispered the information.
"Knife," growled Haynes. "Got me in the right shoulder."
"Polecats, as you say," remarked Sims. "Don't take any chances. They'll rush us in a minute."
There was a muttered order from somewhere forward; then Sims, crouching low, saw the sawlike shadows of the attackers outlined for an instant on the foresail as a flash of light came from the stern. The light was evidently a signal agreed upon. It was received with a yell, and the attackers came forward at a run.
Dynamite Sims fired—once, twice, three times; and on each occasion a throaty curse that told of pain shot out and defied the pursuing night-wind in an effort to tell the shooter that his bullet had found a mark.
The charge was halted temporarily. Mr. Sims swiftly reloaded. A bullet whistled close to the Pike's Peak hat; and Sims, fearful for the hat, took it off and placed it gently at his side. Other shots followed; there came to the ears of Dynamite and the Captain the sound of leaden woodpeckers eating their way into pine. One bullet found a glass target somewhere far in the rear of the two men near the companion. The glass pieces tinkled musically in the silence that followed the shot.
An order in Russian shot up into the night, a hysterical and high-pitched cry. It was caught up by other tongues. It was added to. It became a chant, a wild, barbaric chant, a chant of hate against organized things, a protest against law and decency. Dynamite Sims set his teeth. The words seemed a jeer at civilization, a filthy, horrid jeer at everything that decent people respected.
They charged then!
DYNAMITE SIMS fired with the same coolness that had marked his exhibition on the Vieux Port. It was the coolness that comes to the man who has met Old Dame Trouble on many occasions and has successfully tweaked her nose at every meeting. Haynes, although wounded, ably supported the American.
It was a wild and queer affair. Twice the mutineers lost courage and were driven back, leaving a few dark and groaning figures to mark the high tide of their advance. The barque lurched forward, indifferent to the battle on her deck. The little wind sang songs in the rigging.
After the second retreat of the mutineers there was a long interval of quiet. Dynamite Sims and Haynes whispered together.
"What's happening?" questioned Sims.
"Don't know," gasped the Captain. "They're sick of it, possibly. The second mate, Koltz, is with them. I heard his voice."
"They'll come again," said the cheerful Dynamite. "We've stopped a few of 'em, though. I guess there's half a dozen that want the ambulance wagon. The durned fools! Did you see what's inside that trunk?"
"No," growled the Captain. "I wish I'd never seen the trunk itself. I'm a fool! If there's one little ounce of real damnation coasting about a town, I'm the chap that will find it."
"And you're nice an' liberal when you do find it," observed Mr. Sims. "I would be in my little bed on the Cours Belsunce in Marseilles if you hadn't come along and good-naturedly split the ounce with me. I'm not a—"
A SOFT whisper came from the companionway, and Dynamite Sims' amazement throttled his humorous jeer at the Captain. It was the voice of the Princess that came to his ears.
"What has happened?" she questioned. "I—I cannot hold my father below. He—he wants to come up on deck to—to fight and—"
The voice of the old man came from the stairs as Dynamite Sims crept to the side of the girl, a protesting shrill voice which speared the silence that encompassed the ship and was carried forward by the breeze.
"I will not stay below and let others fight for me!" screamed the old man. "I have no treasure with me! These Bolsheviks are scoundrels, filthy, lying scoundrels and I am not afraid of them!"
Dynamite Sims heard an angry roar from the fo'c'stle; he caught the Princess in his arms and thrust her back down the stairs; then, as her father staggered by him, Sims turned to meet the charge.
THE mutinous crew surged toward the three men at the head of the companionway—surged toward them in a blind wave of hate and greed. They yelled and cursed, firing blindly, and possibly knifing each other by mistake in the darkness.
Sims was the coolest fighter. He took no chances; he allowed nothing to disturb his nerve. Quietly, methodically and with deadly accuracy, he fired. He was conscious of the fall of the girl's father. He heard the soft thud of the old man as he fell, heard the little cry of honor that came from the girl. He heard also the throttled cry of the Captain, who was swept down and knifed by a quartet of mutineers. But these sounds, disheartening as they were, did not upset Mr. Sims. He was in a big fight, and when he was in a big fight, he allowed nothing to upset his nerve. His aim was everything.
He retreated down the companionway, thrusting the girl before him. She wished to stay with the body of her father, but the big American was adamant.
"Plenty o' time for that later," he growled. "Now we've got to beat 'em. Just got to beat 'em! Load this gun for me. Cartridges in my pocket."
The "sheep-lice" came after them. A rather dangerous expedition! Dynamite Sims, crouched in the passage, watched a strip of mottled shadow on the stairs, a strip that became, as the moments passed, the doorstep of eternity for three of the most adventurous of the mutineers.
There came a lull, and Dynamite Sims and the Princess talked in whispers. They were crouched close to each other in the dark passage. Sims felt the perfumed warmth of her body, the sweet fragrance of her breath as she leaned forward to whisper to him. Selfishly he blessed the mutiny, blessed the brass-bound trunk that had stirred the cupidity of the cutthroats of the forecastle.
"Guess they've lost their punch now," observed Dynamite after a long period of silence, during which no sounds of commotion came from the deck. "Mobs are always like that. They get themselves all het up, but the moment they meet some one with a toy pistol, they try to see who can sneak home quickest in case the authorities ask for names."
"Do you—do you think it's over?" asked the girl.
"I think so," said Mr. Sims. "I'll bet that quite a bunch o' those birds are back in their little bunks trying to pretend that they've had a good night's slumber. Guess I'll go up and have a look round."
"Oh, please," cried the girl. "Please look at my father. But—but there is danger."
"There's no danger," said Dynamite. "They've got under cover, an' they'll leave it to the law to find the guilty. That's why mob-stuff is popular."
"But—but you might get shot," gasped the Princess.
"Not me," observed the cowboy, getting to his feet. An old Creole mammy gave me a charm against bullets. Wore it all through the war an' never got touched."
"What is it?" breathed the girl.
"A yellow pebble with a spot o' white in the center," answered Dynamite. "I'll show it to you when the sun comes up. Now, you stay right here, an' I'll go up an' chase those coyotes into their holes."
IT was a liner of the Messageries Martimes that halted in obedience to the signals of distress flying from La Ciotat. The liner sent a boat aboard, and the officer commanding found Mr. Dynamite Sims and a very beautiful young lady on deck standing guard over ten men of the crew that Sims had disarmed and trussed up in true cowboy fashion. The Russian prince and Captain Ezra Haynes, both badly wounded, were in their berths.
"Better go aboard and talk to the skipper," said the officer of the liner. "We'll look after these chaps."
Dynamite Sims and the Princess were taken aboard the big boat, where they told the story of the mutiny to the captain—a very sympathetic captain. He promised to do everything he could. He would give Mr. Sims, the Princess, the Prince and Captain Haynes passage back to Marseilles and would place enough men aboard La Ciotat to take her into Toulon.
"It was lucky for everyone that Captain Haynes took you aboard, Mr. Sims," observed the commander of the liner as they returned to the deck. "Very lucky."
A sharp-faced man lounging against the rail and watching La Ciotat came to life at the mention of the name "Sims." He stared at the big cowboy, hurriedly glanced at a photograph in his pocketbook, then stepped forward.
"Pardon me," he said, bowing politely. "I heard the name. Sims, isn't it? Now, I wonder is it possible that you're Lincoln Garfield Sims of Helena, Montana?"
"The same," answered Mr. Sims. "The same person, better known as Dynamite."
"THE stranger smiled. "I'm John Preston, better known as Always-find-em Preston of the Blankton force," he said. "Two months ago your father, Henry Sims, the millionaire copper king of Montana, gave me a commission to find you and bring you home. He had a row with you years ago—"
"Just because I had a plug of dynamite in my trousers pocket," interrupted Sims.
"That's it," said the Pinkerton man, "but it's all forgotten now. He wants you home, boy. Some fool specialist says he has only six months to live, but I bet if he sees you, he'll live to be a hundred. We'll make Marseilles tomorrow, and there's a boat going to the old U.S. the next day. Are you coming?"
Dynamite Sims took off his Pike's Peak hat and glanced softly at the Princess. "Hold your horses," he murmured, addressing the detective, "I'll tell you in a minute."
The captain of the liner, the detective and a few inquisitive passengers fell back, leaving Dynamite Sims and the Princess alone.
"It's really your country," the officer heard Dynamite say. "Your mother came from Baltimore, an' it's only a little step from Baltimore to Montana. If you would say—"
The detective didn't hear the rest. He stood off with the captain and watched La Ciotat bobbing up and down in the soft morning sunshine.
Dynamite Sims broke the silence. "You can wire for those reservations," he cried. "Me an' this young lady are going home."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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