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Show j THE IMPOSTOK I By FRANK L. PACKARD vV"- -St.'- Ht, -M'- -M'- -M'. vMi. .V'-M?. !.. vV(- AM, 1', J!, A!',Af,AV, vM- vV.. vV't, vM' l-vM. SSl-vVi; I (Copyright.) only waking for the fever to run its course. That would take maybe a few hours more. A voice within him seemed to keep whispering: "Hounds! You've got to make rounds, make rounds." For two days or nights, or whenever it was since Johnson had first taken sick, lie had made rounds unceasingly with the medicines; that was why the medicines medi-cines were on the skylight, so that he wouldn't have to go below. But making rounds was over now; there was no one to make rounds for there was only himself. "Rounds! Make rounds; it's time to make rounds !" the voice insisted. He roused himself. Yes, that was so. Last time he had gone along the deck Ting Wall was still alive. The mau would be dead now probably, and the medicines weren't any good, anyway; any-way; it was air, God's air, that was wanted. "Hounds! Make rounds!" He staggered up from his chair, collected col-lected some drugs and, reeling to the ship's side where the rail would help support him, made his way painfully forward to where another awning was stretched over the fore-deck. He kept his eyes in front of him; there were shapes about the deck covered with anything that had first come to hand shapes that should not have been there only at the last Johnson and he had been too weak to do anything but throw coverings over them. He didn't want to look ar the shapes. There was one form, only one, that was uncovered, and he knelt beside it. Ting Wah was still alive. "Medicine," said Wallen hoarsely. The Chinaman pushed it away. "No can take," he answered weakly. weak-ly. "Me finish." "Wallen steadied himself with an effort, and looked at the other closely. It was near the end ; but still, as under un-der certain conditions it sometimes did, the disease had left the man's intelligence in-telligence unimpaired. "Look here, old chap," said Wallen cheerfully through his own cracked lips. 'Tou never know. Buck up. Take the medicine." He stooped to lift the other's head gently, and nearly fell himself in doing it. A sudden gleam of gratitude came into the Chinaman's eyes. "You glood man," he whispered. "You all same glood man. But no can take all same finish now." He pushed LOVE, ADVENTURE, FIGHTING! "The Impostor" is a story of action of love, adventure adven-ture and fighting. It's no society novel. It's no detective detec-tive yarn. It's no study of the sex problem. It's no preachment in disguise. It's a red-blooded narrative of the sea, with an unusual plot, just enough mystery to keep the reader guessing and the fascination of the Orient thrown in for good measure. The adventure comes first, as it should. Then comes the fighting. And in the events leading up to the finale Cupid takes command. The hero is American and worth while. The heroine is American and lovable. The pirate villian is able, mysterious mys-terious and aggressive and when the hero evens up the score you're glad of it. And the story is well written. writ-ten. The word pictures are graphic. You can get thrills in every installment. You'll be eager to get hold of it and you'll wish there was more. CHAPTER I. 1 The Last Round. An oily sea ! Stillness absolute stillness, save for the groan and creak of the yards and booms, as the bark rolled lifelessly on the long, shimmering shimmer-ing swells. Not a breath of air; only a stifling heat that beat upon the decks until the pitch in the seams bubbled. Only a waste of water that reflected the merciless tropic glare of the sun and hurt the eyes cruelly. Under an awning in the stern a man in cotton shirt and trousers, who was huddled in a 'chair by the cabin skylight, sky-light, lifted his head and mumbled through cracked lips. "Twenty grains of calomel, twenty-four twenty-four quinine magnesia, peppermint-water peppermint-water gone." His hands fumbled with the drugs from the ship's medicine chest that strewed the skylight, and guessing at the quantities, carried portions to his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty, and relapsed into a huddled position. After a little he raised his head once more, and began to count upon Jus fingers. One, two, three, four, five was it five or eight days, or ten, or a month that the calm had lasted? He did not know. He had lost all track of time. But it worried him, and to his sick brain assumed very vital proportions.' pro-portions.' The ship's log would tell him. He reached for it and began to scan the entries. It was strange that trying try-ing to read brought red flashes and pain to his eyes. The words came only to him in snatches. ; "October 10. Still becalmed. Intense In-tense heat. Native boatswain took sick this morning. "October . Buried boatswain last night. Four more of crew down. We've got yellow fever aboard. God help us if we don't get a breeze !" His eyes went on down the page In a haphazard, Irresponsible way, skipping skip-ping entries here and there uncon- sclously. "Stjll becalmed. God have mercy on us! Native crew all down. Chinaman China-man named Won Su, after making a murderous attack in his delirium on Wallen, the first mate, jumped overboard." over-board." Yes, he remembered that. He was Wallen Stacey Wallen the first male of the bark Upolo. It had been a horrible hor-rible sight. The poor devil had rushed at him screaming and he shuddered a little he diil not want to think of that. What was this entry here? "The heat is horrible. Survivors too weak to bury the dead. Captain Mitchell died at 2:10 a. in." That was the last entry. There wasn't any date on it. He couldn't remember re-member whether It had been yesterday yester-day or the day before. Well, what did it matter; and, anyway, it was time to make rounds. Hounds! What rounds were there to make? Everybody was dead. Johnson, the second sec-ond mate, had died that morning, though lie hadn't made the entry of Johnson's death in the log; what was the good? There wasn't any more use for a log. Fveryhody was dead except ex-cept himself the other two white men and the crew, who were all natives. Anil now he was down, too; he was "Ting Wah ! Ting Wah !" he criefl again, shaking the man to rouse him. "What do you mean? Ting Wah, don't you hear me! What did you mean to kill me for?" There was no answer. The man was no, not yet ! Ting Wall's lips were' moving. Wallen bent his head still closer to catch the words. "Dlink-House Sam Singapore him know." That was nil. It was over now. Wallen straightened up unsteadily, and lurched to the rail where he could cling on to something. Six Chinamen had shipped as part of the crew so that they could kill him. Why? He laughed in a sick fashion. What did it matter? They were all dead, those six and every one else and in a few hours he would be dead too. He laughed again, a little hysterically. hys-terically. This Drink-House Sam of Singapore, whoever he was, ought to be satisfied with that! He clawed his way back to the aft-erdeck, aft-erdeck, and dropped into his chaii again. His brain seemed to go numli for a time, to be indifferent to everything every-thing and then suddenly to become strangely active. Six Chinamen had shipped as members of the crew so that they could kill him. It wasn't a pleasant thought, even if the whole six were dead now, and that he himself him-self would be dead, too, before long. Oh. yes, he believed it now, right enough why shouldn't he? What about that murderous attack Won Su had made upon him, and that he had thought was delirium! But that wasn't all, he had reason beside that to believe Ting Wah's story ; reason enough, God knew! now that he came to think of the things that were crowding crowd-ing into his mind. Out of the shimmering heat waves that rose along the deck and seemed to hover so weirdly over those covered cov-ered shapes that ought not to have been there, another scene gradually look form, at first indistinctly, vaguely, vague-ly, then in sharp outline, startling, distinct. dis-tinct. It was a stone house, a gray stone house, all by itself, without neighbors, neigh-bors, isolated, a silent place. Y'es, he i remembered it! It seemed to bring a chill upon him now the cold, dreary, lifeless house had done its best to crush even a laugh out of his boyhood with its eternal, silent brooding mystery. mys-tery. That was why he had run away ten years ago, when he was fourteen. All his earlier recollections were of that place. His mother wasn't there, he had never seen his mother. There were just his father, and that tall, swarthy Eastern servant, who frightened his boy's heart just those two and himself. him-self. He never saw anyone else. No one ever came to the house. No one was ever admitted. Gunga, the servant, fetched the supplies from the nearby village. His own education was superintended by his father. But there had never been any intimacy between his father and himself. He had never questioned his father but once after that he had never dared to do so. He remembered the deadly whiteness that had come over the morose, taciturn face, the grip of iron upon his shoulder, the hoarse passion pas-sion in his father's voice. "Never speak to me again of that," his father had said. "When you are older, when the time comes, you shall know." Wallen rocked unsteadily in his chair. What a frightful stench the ship possessed or was it only his imagination ! What was it he had been thinking of? Oh, yes, the six Chinamen who had come to kill him, and the gray house where there were so many bars and lochs, and where every night his father and Gunga turned the keys and the chains rattled rat-tled on the doors as they fastened them. He raised his hand and passed it across his eyes in a startled way. How vividly it came back to him, that night as though it were just happening now, as though he were in the very act of living it again ! , A crasii in the dead of night through that silent house, and he had sat up, trembling, in bed. Then a cry, the report of a pistol shot, and the echoes of the shot rumbled and reverberated re-verberated through the house, striking terror into his young heart. And he was crawling out of his bed, and out into the hall and down the stairs in his nightshirt. And half-way down' he stopped in horror. Below, in the hallway, stood the giant form of his falher holding a candle, and or. the floor lay stretched a huddled form, and Gunga, with a revolver, was bending over the Thing (hat did not move. Then came his father's fa-ther's voice, in a strange, queer note of tense eagerness. "Look again, Gunga. Has he one finger on the left, hand?" Stacey Wallen writes in the log: "Died today, S. Wallen. first mate." 1 1 ' ,. . ! j (TO BE CONTINUED.! feuy (,y Making Rounds Was Over Now. the medicine away again ; and then plucked at Wallen's sleeve, evidently trying to get the juate's head dow'n closer to his lips. The man was going fast. Wallen tried to force a kindly smile. "What is it?" he asked. "Listen!" said Ting Wah. "Mebbe you die too. Mebbe no. All same me tell you glood man last night bling medicine all night you glood man me me tell " His voice trailed off weakly. "Yes?" prompted Wallen kindly. The man tried to speak, tried again, but without avail. Wallen's own head was reeling, premonitory pre-monitory of coming nausea. "It's all right, Ting Wah, it's all right," he said soothingly. "Better not try to talk." But now Ting Wall, with a desperate effort, raised himself to his elbow. "Yes, me talk !" he gasped out. "But must talk quick. Me here. Won Su here, four more all same Chinamen come on bloard and make crew o:i ship here for all same knifee you." There was contortion in the man's face, a pitiful struggle to fight back the weakness and exhaustion that was upon him. Wallen stared at him in a dazed way. "Kill me, Ting Wah !" he cried out. "What for? You you don't know what you're saying, do you? Y'ou don't mean that!" The Chinaman's elbow was slipping gradually mvay from beneath him, his eyes were closed. The medicine spilled from Wallen's hands onto 'he deck, and he caught at the other, propping him up. |