Page:Weird Tales volume 11 number 02.pdf/73

216 Lee Goona was rather fastidious in his eating, and the sight revolted him. He was a devotee of cleanliness and there were times when the filth and insect life on the ship made him regret that he had left the coral beach. Starvation would be preferable to this beastlike existence.

And yet the captain interested him. His name was Jimber Jawn, and when the spirit moved him he could relate stories, legends and adventures in a magical manner.

Sometimes he stood for hours against the rail discussing things in the most affable manner. Other times there were when his face was black and somber and Lee Goona was afraid to address him.

"It is interesting to have someone to talk to who has at least a glimmering of intelligence," declared Jimber Jawn. "The rest of the animals on board can not visualize anything above gluttony."

Just when a great fear commenced to grip Lee Goona it was hard to say. Perhaps it was the logical result of endless days at sea in that reeking black hulk with the gorgeous golden sails. Or perhaps it was the fetid air, the crawling things and the frightful wrangling that forever polluted the forecastle. Whatever the cause, fear gripped him. Sometimes in the depth of the night he sprang up in his bunk, wide-eyed, terrified, shaking from head to foot. Some uncanny thing had stirred his slumbers. Had he heard a scream? Or was it merely the dreams of his subconscious mind? For hours he would lie afraid to close his eyes, and yet there was nothing more loathsome about the forecastle than there was on any other night.

Never while on board was he given any work to do. He helped at times at various tasks, but these were purely voluntary. Jimber Jawn talked with him a great deal. It could not be said that they became friends, because there was an aloofness about the captain that was hard to explain.

One night Jimber Jawn came to him in great excitement. "Quick," he directed, "follow me if you value your life." As he spoke he walked across the deck and lifted one of the steel hatches that led to the yawning blackness of the hold. "Climb down the rope ladder," continued Jimber Jawn hurriedly.

The tone of his voice was such that Lee Goona could not have dared to argue with him. He was well aware of the surging fury that lay hidden in the stalwart body of Jimber Jawn. Once one of the ugliest of the mongrel crew had crossed the captain; for one brief instant Jimber Jawn had stared at the cringing sailor; the next moment his great arm shot out. Lee Goona could never forget the cold thud of that blow, the sound of breaking bones, the low groan of the poor victim as he crashed to the deck. What had happened afterward he dreaded to ponder over. Such violence in a blow seemed unbelievable. It was not the blow of a human being but of some frightful, steel-like Frankenstein. Less than an hour later Jimber Jawn had talked to him delightfully of the comparative difference between Chinese and Japanese poetry.

Now, as Lee Goona was ordered down into the hold, he did as he was told. Jimber Jawn's tone, despite his evident excitement, was affable; but calm too is the air immediately preceding a typhoon. He was far from being a coward, but for the life of him he could not have protested against going.

The hold of the ship was as black and hot as the crater of a volcano. There was not the faintest crack of light. It was as awesomely black as the extreme of the ocean's depths. The rats scampered about him screeching and howling. They