The seven missionaries — Inside the Classic

es not expect a devout man with a Bible lying open on his knee to invoke the name of the Almighty quite so glibly. If he had said “Dear me!” or “Good gracious!” it would have been different. But the other came as almost a shock. However, the matter was a small one, and probably I should have dismissed it from my mind, but for the sequel a minute or two later. The skipper was called away on some matter, and Jim and I strolled back past the two parsons. They both looked up at us with mild interest as we passed, but neither of them gave the faintest sign of recognition.

Now that did strike me as strange. A Clergyman may swear if he likes, but why in the name of fortune he should utterly ignore a man whom he evidently knew was beyond me.

“Come and lean over the side, Jim,” I said, when we were out of earshot. “I want to tell you something funny. Only don’t look around.”

He listened in silence, and when I ended he said:

“More people know Tom Fool, old boy, than Tom Fool knows. I certainly don’t know either of those two sportsmen, but it’s more than likely they know me, at any rate by sight. And wouldn’t you swear if you had to wear a dog collar in this heat?”

Evidently Jim was inclined to dismiss the episode as trifling, and after a time I came around to the same view. Even at lunch that day, when the skipper was formally introducing us and the clergyman still gave no sign of claiming any previous acquaintance with Jim, I thought no more about it. Possibly to substantiate that claim he might have had to admit his presence in some place which would take a bit of explaining away to his little flock. For the man whose voice I had heard was evidently the shining light of the bunch.

He turned out to be the Reverend Samuel Longfellow, and his destination, as that of all the others, was Colombo. They were going to open a missionary house somewhere in the interior of Ceylon, and run it on novel lines of their own. But at that point Jim and I got out of our depths and the conversation languished. However, they seemed very decent fellows, even if they did fail somewhat signally to add to the general gaiety.

The voyage pursued its quiet, normal course for the first four or five days. The two Americans and the skipper made up the necessary numbers for a game of poker; the two ladies--mother and daughter they were by the name of Armstrong--knitted; the seven parsons prayed, and the colored gentleman effaced himself. The weather was perfect; the sea like a mill pond with every prospect of continuing so for some time. And so we lazed along at our twelve knots, making a couple of final calls before starting on the two-thousand-mile run to Colombo.

It was the first night out on the last stage that Jim and I were sitting talking with the skipper on the bridge. Occasionally the sharp, hissing crackle of the wireless installation broke the silence, and through the open door of the cabin we could see the operator working away in his shirt sleeves.

“I guess it’s hard to begin to estimate what we sailors owe to Marconi for that invention,” said Kelly thoughtfully. “Now that we’ve got it, it seems almost incredible to think how we got along without it. And what can I do for you, sir?”

An abrupt change in his tone made me look around to see the Reverend Samuel Longfellow standing diffidently behind us. He evidently felt that he was trespassing, for his voice was almost apologetic.

“Is it possible, captain, to send a message from your wireless?” he asked.

“Of course it is,” answered Kelly. “You can hand in any message you like to the operator, and he’ll send it for you.”

“You see, I’ve never sent a message by wireless before,” said the parson mildly, “and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Can you get an answer quickly?”

“Depends on whom you are sending it to and where he is.”

“He’s on a yacht somewhere in this neighborhood,” answered the clergyman. “He is a missionary, like myself, whose health has broken down, and a kind philanthropist is taking him for a cruise to help him recover. I felt it would be so nice if I could speak to him, so to say--and hear from him, perhaps, how he is getting on.”

“Quite,” agreed the skipper gravely. “Well, Mr. Longfellow, there is nothing to prevent your speaking to him as much as you like. You just hand in your message to the operator whenever you want to, and he’ll send down the answer to you as soon as he receives it.”

“Oh, thank you, Captain Kelly,” said the parson gratefully. “I suppose there’s no way of saying where I am,” he continued hesitatingly. “I mean on shore when one sends a wire the person who gets it can look up where you are on a map, and it makes it so much more interesting for him.”

The skipper knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Longfellow,” he remarked at length, in a stifled voice, “that you can’t quite do that at sea. Of course, the position of the ship will be given on the message in terms of latitude and longitude. So if your friend goes to the navigating officer of this yacht, he’ll be able to show him with a pin exactly where you were in the Indian Ocean when the message was sent.”

“I see,” said the clergyman. “How interesting! And then, if I tell him that we are moving straight toward Colombo at twelve knots an hour, my dear friend will be able to follow me in spirit all the way on the map.”

The skipper choked slightly.

“Precisely, Mr. Longfellow. But I wouldn’t call it twelve knots an hour if I were you. Just say--twelve knots.”

The Reverend Samuel looked a little bewildered.

“Twelve knots. I see. Thank you so much. I’m afraid I don’t know much about the sea. May I--may I go now to the gentleman who sends the messages?”

“By all manner of means,” said Kelly, and Jim’s shoulders shook. “Give the operator your message, and you shall have the answer as soon as it arrives.”

Again murmuring his thanks, the missionary departed, and shortly afterward we saw him in earnest converse with the wireless operator. And that worthy, having read the message and scratched his head, stared a little dazedly at the Reverend Samuel Longfellow, obviously feeling some doubts as to his sanity. To be asked to dispatch to the world at large a message beginning “Dear Brother,” and finishing “Yours in the church” struck him as being something which a self-respecting wireless operator should not be asked to do.

“Poor little bird,” said the skipper thoughtfully, as the missionary went aft to join his companions, “I’m glad for his sake that he doesn’t know what the bulk of our cargo is this trip. He wouldn’t be able to sleep at night for fear of being made to walk the plank by pirates.”

Jim looked up lazily.

“Why, what have you got on board, old man?”

The skipper lowered his voice.

“I haven’t shouted about it, Jim, and as a matter of fact I don’t think the crew know. Don’t pass it on, but we’ve got over half a million in gold below, to say nothing of a consignment of pearls worth certainly another quarter.”

Jim whistled. “By Jove! It would be a nice haul for some one. Bit out of your line, isn’t it, James--carrying specie?”

“Yes, it is,” agreed the other. “It generally goes on the bigger boats, but there was some hitch this time. And it’s just as safe with me as it is with them. That has made it safe.” He pointed to the wireless operator busily sending out the parson’s message. “That has made piracy a thing of the past. And incidentally, as you can imagine, Jim, it’s a big feather in my cap, getting away with this consignment. It’s going to make the trip worth six ordinary ones to the firm, and--er--to me. And, with any luck, if things go all right, as I’m sure they will, I have hopes that in the future it will no longer be out of our line. We might get a share of that traffic, and I’ll be able to buy that chicken farm in Dorsetshire earlier than I thought.”

Jim laughed. “You old humbug, James! You’ll never give up the sea.”

The skipper sighed and stretched himself.

“Maybe not, lad; maybe not. Not till she gives me up, anyway. But chickens are nice companionable beasts they tell me, and Dorset is England.”

We continued talking for a few minutes longer, when a sudden and frenzied explosion of mirth came from the wireless operator. I had noticed him taking down a message, which he was now reading over to himself, and after a moment or two of unrestrained joy he came out on deck.

“What is it, Jenkins?” said the skipper.

“Message for the parson, sir,” answered the operator.

“There is a duplicate on the table.”

He saluted, and went aft to find the Reverend Samuel.

“I think,” murmured the skipper, with a twinkle in his eye, “that I will now inspect the wireless installation. Would you care to come with me?”

And this is what we, most reprehensibly, read:

Dear Brother how lovely the gentleman who guides our ship tells me we pass quite close about midday the day after tomorrow will lean over railings and wave pocket handkerchief. Ferdinand.

“My sainted aunt!” spluttered the skipper. “‘Lean over railings and wave pocket handkerchief!’”

“I think I prefer ‘the gentleman who guides our ship,’ said Jim gravely. “Anyway, James, I shall borrow your telescope as we come abreast of Ferdinand. I’d just hate to miss him. Good night, old man. You’d better have that message framed.”

It was about half an hour later that the door of my cabin opened and Jim entered abruptly. I was lying in my bunk smoking a final cigarette, and I looked at him in mild surprise. He was fully dressed, though I had seen him start to take off his clothes twenty minutes before, and he was looking grave.

“You pay attention, Dick,” he said quietly, sitting down on the other bunk. “I had just taken off my coat when I remembered I’d left my cigar case in a niche up on deck. I went up to get it, and just as I was putting it in my pocket I heard my own name mentioned. Somewhat naturally I stopped to listen. And I distinctly heard this sentence--‘Don’t forget--you are absolutely responsible for Maitland.’ I listened for about five minutes, but I couldn’t catch anything else except a few disconnected words here and there, such as ‘wireless’ and ‘midday.’ Then there was a general pushing back of deck chairs, and those seven black-coated blighters trooped off to bed. They didn’t see me; they were on the other side of the funnel--but it made me think. You remember that remark you heard as we came on board? Well, why the deuce is this bunch of parsons so infernally interested in me? I don’t like it, Dick.” He looked at me hard through his eyeglass. “Do you think they are parsons?”

I sat up in bed with a jerk.

“What do you mean--do I think they’re parsons? Of course they’re parsons. Why shouldn’t they be parsons?” But I suddenly felt very wide awake.

Jim thoughtfully lit a cigar.

“Quite so--why shouldn’t they be? At the same time”--he paused and blew out a cloud of smoke--“Dick, I suppose I’m a suspicious bird, but this interest--this peculiar interest--in me is strange, to say the least of it. Of course it may be that they regard me as a particularly black soul to be plucked from the burning, in which case I ought to feel duly flattered. On the other hand, let us suppose for a second that they are not parsons. Well, I don’t think I am being unduly conceited if I say that I have a fairly well-known reputation as a tough customer, if trouble occurs.”

By this time all thoughts of sleep had left me.

“What do you mean, Jim?” I demanded.

He answered my question by another.

“Don’t you think, Dick, that that radiograph was just a little _too_ foolish to be quite genuine?”

“Well, it was genuine right enough. Jenkins took it down in front of our eyes.”

“Oh, it was _sent_; I’m not denying that. And it was sent as he received it, and as we read it. But was it sent by a genuine parson, cruising in a genuine yacht for his health? If so, my opinion of the brains of the church drops below par. But if”--he drew deeply at his cigar--“if, Dick, it was not sent by a genuine parson, but by someone who wished to pose as the driveling idiot curate of fiction, why, my opinion of the brains of the church remains at par.”

“Look here,” I said, lighting a cigarette, “I may be stupid, but I can’t get you. Granting your latter supposition, why should any one not only want to pose as a parson when he isn’t one, but also take the trouble to send fool messages around the universe?”

“Has it occurred to you,” said Jim quietly, “that two very useful pieces of information have been included in those two fool messages? First, our exact position at a given time, and our course and our speed. Secondly, the approximate time when the convalescing curate, in the yacht belonging to the kind friend, will impinge on that course. And the third fact--not contained in either message, but which may possibly have a bearing on things, is that on board this yacht there is half a million in gold, and quarter of a million in pearls.

“Good heavens!” I muttered, staring at him foolishly.

“Mark you, Dick, I may have stumbled into a real first-class mare’s nest. The Reverend Samuel and his pals may be all that they say and more, but I don’t like this tender solicitude for my salvation.”

“Are you going to say anything to the skipper?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “I think I shall tell James. But he’s a pig-headed fellow, and he’ll probably be darned rude about it. I should, if I were he. They aren’t worrying over _his_ salvation.”

And with that he went to bed, leaving me thinking fairly acutely. Could there be anything in it? Could it be possible that any one would attempt piracy in the twentieth century, especially when the ship, as the skipper had pointed out, was equipped with wireless? The idea was ridiculous, and the next morning I went around to Jim’s cabin to tell him so. It was empty, and there was a note lying on the bed addressed to me. It was brief and to the point:

I am ill in bed with a sharp dose of fever. Pass the good news on to our friend--the parson. Jim

I did so, at breakfast, and I thought I detected a shade of relief pass over the face of the Reverend Samuel though he inquired most solicitously about the sufferer and even went so far as to wish to give him some patent remedy of his own. But I assured him that quinine and quiet were all that were required, and with that the matter dropped.

And then there began for me a time of irritating suspense. Not a sign of Jim did I see for the whole of that day and the following night. His cabin door had been locked since I went in before breakfast, and I didn’t even know whether he was inside or not. All I did know was that something was doing, and there are few things more annoying than being out of a game that you know is being played. Afterward I realized that it was unavoidable; but at the time I cursed inwardly and often.

And the strange thing is that when the thing did occur it came with almost as much of a shock to me as if I had had no previous suspicions. It was the suddenness of it, I think--the suddenness and the absolute absence of any fuss or shouting. Naturally I didn’t see the thing in its entirety; my outlook was limited to what happened to me and in my own vicinity.

I suppose it was about half-past eleven, and I was strolling up and down the deck. Midday had been the time mentioned, and I was feeling excited and restless. Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter were seated in their usual place, and I stopped and spoke a few words to them. Usually Mrs. Armstrong was the talker of the two--a big, gaunt woman with yellow spectacles, but pleasant and homely. This morning, however, the daughter answered--and her mother, who had put on a veil in addition to the spectacles, sat silently beside her.

“Poor mother has such a headache from the glare that she has had to put on a veil,” she said. “I hope Mr. Maitland is better.”

I murmured that he was about the same, just as two of the parsons strolled past and I wondered why the girl gave a little laugh. Then suddenly she sat up, with a cry of admiration.

“Oh, look at that lovely yacht!”

I swung around quickly, and there, sure enough, about a hundred yards from us and just coming into sight around the awning, was a small steam yacht, presumably the one from which Ferdinand was to wave. And at that moment the shorter of the two parsons put a revolver within an inch of my face, while the other one ran his hands over my pockets. It was so unexpected that I gaped at him foolishly, and even when I saw my Colt flung overboard I hardly realized that the big holdup had begun.

Then there came a heavy thud from just above us, and I saw Jenkins, the wireless man, pitch forward on his face half in and half out of his cabin door. He lay there sprawling, while another of the parsons proceeded to wreck his instruments with the iron bar which he had used to stun the operator. Just then, with a squawk of terror like an anguished hen, Mrs. Armstrong rose to her feet, and with her pink parasol in one hand and her rug in the other fled toward the bow of the ship. She looked so irresistibly funny--this large, hysterical woman--that I couldn’t help it, I laughed. And even the two determined-looking parsons smiled, though not for long.

“Go below,” said one of them to Miss Armstrong. “Remain in your cabin. And you”--he turned to me--“go aft where the others are.”

“You infernal scoundrel!” I shouted. “What are you playing at?”

“Don’t argue, or I’ll blow out your brains,” he said quietly. “And get a move on.”

I found the two Americans and the colored gentleman standing in a bunch with a few of the deck hands, and every one seemed equally dazed. One of the so-called parsons stood near with a revolver in each hand, but it was really an unnecessary precaution; we were none of us in a position to do anything. And suddenly one of the Americans gripped my arm.

“Gee! Look at the two guns on that yacht.”

Sure enough, mounted fore and aft, and trained directly on us were two guns that looked to me to be of about three-inch calibre, and behind each of them stood two men.

“What’s the game anyway?” he went on excitedly, as two boats shot away from the yacht. For the first time I noticed that the engines had stopped and that we were lying motionless on the calm, oily sea. But my principal thoughts were centered on Jim. Where was he? What was he doing? Had these blackguards done away with him, or was he lying up somewhere--hidden away? And even if he was, what could he do? Those two guns had an unpleasant appearance.