Panther Eye. Roy J. Snell
in the carrying out of its high purposes? Were the needy in great barren Russia to continue to freeze and starve? He hoped not.
As he rose to go, he saw a small dark object scurry over the snow. At first he thought it a raven. But at last, with a little circle, it appeared to flop over and to lie still, a dark spot on the snow.
Johnny approached it cautiously. As he came close, his lips parted in an exclamation:
“A phonographic record!”
He looked quickly up the hill, then to the right and left. Not a person was in sight.
“Apparently from the sky,” he murmured.
But at that instant he caught himself. They had a phonograph in their outfit. This was doubtless one of their records. But how did it come out here?
As he picked it up and examined it closely, he knew at once that it was not one of their own, for it was a different size and had neither number nor label on it.
“Ho, well,” he sighed, “probably thrown away by some native. Take it down and try it out anyway. Might be a good one.”
At that, he began making his way down the hill.
He was nearly late to mess. Already the men were assembled around the long table and were helping themselves to “goldfish” and hot biscuits.
“Boys,” Johnny smiled, “I’ve been downtown and brought home a new record for the phonograph. We’ll hear it in the clubroom after mess.”
“What’s the name of it?” inquired Dave Tower, all interest at once, as, indeed, they all were.
“Don’t know,” said Johnny, “but I bet it’s a good one.”
Mess over, they adjourned to the “clubroom,” a large room, roughly but comfortably furnished with homemade easy chairs, benches and tables, and supplied with all the reading matter in camp.
Many pairs of curious eyes turned to the phonograph in the corner as Johnny, after winding the machine, carefully placed the disk in position, adjusted the needle, and with a loud “A-hem!” started the machine in motion.
There followed the usual rattle and thump as the needle cleared its way to the record.
Every man sat bolt upright, ears and eyes strained, when from the woody throat came the notes of a clear voice:
| “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, Yo—ho—ho, and a bottle of rum. Fifteen men and the dark and damp, My men ’tis better to shun.” |
Again the machine appeared to clear its throat.
A smile played over the faces of the men. But again the voice sang:
| “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, Yo—ho—ho, and a bottle of rum. Fifteen men and the dark and damp, My men ’tis better to shun.” |
Again came a rattle. A puzzled expression passed over Johnny’s face. The same song was repeated over and over till the record was finished.
A hoarse laugh came from one corner. It died half finished. No one joined in the laugh. There was something uncanny about this record which had drifted in from nowhere with its song of pirate days and of death. Especially did it appear so, coming at such a time as this.
“Well, what do you make of it?” Johnny smiled queerly.
“It’s a spirit message!” exclaimed Jarvis, “I read as ’ow Sir Oliver Lodge ’as got messages from ’is departed ones through the medium of a slate. ’Oo’s to say spirits can’t talk on them wax records as well. It’s a message, a warnin’ to us in this ’ere day of death.”
Smiles followed but no laughing. In a land such as this, every man’s opinion is respected.
“More likely some whaler made a few private records of his own singing and gave this one to the natives,” suggested Dave Tower. “They’d take it for something to eat, but, when they tried boiling it and had no success, they’d throw it away. That’s probably what’s happened and here we have the record.”
“Anyway,” said the doctor, “if he’s a sailor, you’ll have to admit he had a very fine voice.”
There the matter was dropped. But Johnny took it up again before he slept. He could not help feeling that this was sent as a warning not from the spirit world, but from some living person. Who that person might be, he had no sort of notion. And the message gave no clue. He repeated it slowly to himself.
“What could you make out of that?” he mumbled.
Then he turned over in his deer-skin bag and went to sleep.
CHAPTER III
A FIGHT IN THE NIGHT
| “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, Yo—ho—ho, and a bottle of rum. Fifteen men and the dark and damp, My men ’tis better to shun.” |
For the fiftieth time Johnny heard those words ground out by the record that had rolled down the hill to meet him. Fifty times he had searched in vain for its meaning. For that it was not chance that had sent it rolling to his feet, but purpose, the mysterious purpose of an unknown some one, he was certain.
If the man had something to say to him, why did he not say it? Why veil his meaning in an apparently senseless song? It was getting on his nerves.
He sprang to his feet and began pacing the floor. For the first time since the record came into his hands, he had an idea. Somewhere, he had read part of that song, perhaps all. But where? He could not think.
He came to a stand beside Dave Tower, who was reading.
“Dave,” he exclaimed, “part of that song, or all of it, is printed in a book. What book is it?”
“Your memory’s poor,” grinned Dave, “ ‘Treasure Island,’ of course—only the first two lines, though. It’s the song the old one-legged pirate used to sing.”
“Sure,” smiled Johnny.
Turning, he left the room.
In a moment he had his parka down over his head and was out in the open air. He wanted to think.
The yellow light of the moon was cut here and there by dark purple shadows of the night. Not a breath stirred. He walked slowly up the hill, watching the golden streamers of the northern lights streaking across the sky. It was a perfect night. And yet, it was to be marred all too soon.
| “Fifteen men and the dark and damp, My men ’tis better to shun.” |
Johnny repeated the last two lines of the song. So these were the words the mysterious singer had improvised to sing with those which were well known by every live American boy. What could he mean? Why had he sung them?
Suddenly it all seemed clear to him; the man was being watched and dared not do a thing openly. He wished to send them a warning. This was his only way. And the warning was doubtless to tell them to stay away from the death trap where Frank Langlois had perished.
“Well,” Johnny exclaimed, as if addressing the person who had sent the message, “if that’s all there is to it, we’ve already complied with your wish.”
He