T.C. Bridges

A Fight for Fortune

Or, The Tiger of Batol

Warsaw 2019

Contents

I. THE MAN WITH THE BLACK BAG

II. ACROSS THE ROOF-TOPS

III. WHAT THE BLACK BAG HELD

IV. THE SCHOONER "BRILLIANT"

V. THE FLOATING CASTLE

VI. HOW THE BIG JUNK CAUGHT A TARTAR

VII. HERITAGE TAKES THE TILLER

VIII. WHEN THE FISH STOPPED BITING

IX. AT GRIPS WITH THE SEA-DEVIL

X. THE COMING OF THE CASTAWAY

XI. THE BATTLE FOR THE SCHOONER

XII. IN THE DEPTHS OF THE LAGOON

XIII. THE MASTER OF THE PEARL PIT

XIV. THE HUNTED SHIP

XV. KUSIMA DRIVES A HARD BARGAIN

XVI. STARK SHOWS HIS HAND

XVII. THE BATTLE IN THE BUSH

XVIII. THE TENDER MERCIES OF STARK

XIX. WHEN THE STORM BROKE

XX. THE ORDEAL BY ROPE

XXI. HOW THE TABLES WERE TURNED

XXII. THE LAST CHAPTER

I. THE MAN WITH THE BLACK BAG

“CLIVE DENHAM, what are you doing in Plymouth?”

Clive, who had been sheltering from a sharp shower under a shop awning at the corner of Dockyard Road, looked up with a startled expression upon his thin, keen face.

An alert-looking youngster of about his own age, seventeen, stood before him, with a smile twinkling in his merry blue eyes.

Clive drew a quick breath, and grasped the other’s outstretched hand.

“I might ask you the same question, Austin, old chap. You’re the last person I expected to run into down here.”

“Why? You knew we lived in Cornwall.”

“Yes, but somehow I didn’t connect Cornwall with Plymouth.”

“Machinery and mathematics are the only things you ever could connect up,” laughed Austin, cheerily. “Cornwall is only just the other side of the Hamoaze, and I’m often in Plymouth. But as for you, I thought you were up in your father’s works at Coventry.”

“My father is dead,” said Clive, quietly.

A quick expression of remorse crossed Austin’s face.

“My dear chap, I’m awfully sorry. When was it?”

“A month ago,” said Clive.

“Are you going to carry on the works?” asked Austin.

“There are no works to carry on,” replied Clive.

Then, seeing the other’s look of astonishment, he went on:

“My poor dad ruined himself with his experiments. He spent every penny on that new flying machine, and then he caught cold just before he’d finished it. He’d been overworking, and was in an awfully shaky state, and he got pneumonia, and it finished him inside a week.”

“Hard luck!” said Chesney, sympathetically. “Then you’re at a loose end?”

“Very loose,” said Clive, with a grim smile on his thin face. “I’ve got rather less than five pounds between me and the workhouse.”

“Rot, man!” retorted Austin. “A chap with a head like yours can always get a job.”

“It must be my hands that are at fault, then,” replied Clive. “I’ve been trying everywhere for the past three weeks, and can’t get taken on. I came down here to look up Captain Brereton, an old friend of my father’s. He’s skipper and part owner of a tramp steamer, the Sphinx. I hoped to cadge a passage to Australia, where I thought I might find a job.”

“Are you going?”

“Worse luck! He’s just sailed. And he won’t be back for four months or more.”

Austin gave a low whistle.

“That’s bad,” he said. “Look here, old chap, it’s nearly one. Come and feed with me, and we’ll talk things over. We’ll go and have a blow-out at the ‘Lockyer.’”

Clive hesitated. “I’m afraid–” he began.

“Afraid be blowed!” said Austin. “You’re not going to be too proud to have lunch with your old school pal. Come on, or I’ll call a taxi, and take you by force.”

A very pleasant smile lighted up Clive’s rather sad face.

“Bosh, man! I’m not proud in that way. Only my togs are hardly up to ‘Lockyer’ form.” And he glanced down at his neat but almost threadbare blue serge.

“I don’t care where we go, so long as we get a square feed,” said Austin. “I’m as hungry as a hawk, for I breakfasted at seven. The rain has stopped. Come on.”

Down around the Barbican in Plymouth lie some of the meanest streets to be found in any big town in the South of England. They are narrow, squalid, and dirty, and haunted by plenty of the bad characters who are always to be found in any big seaport.

Austin, however, seemed to know his way, and struck up through an alley which was one degree worse than the road which they had just left. The rough cobbles streamed with muddy water, the windows of the tall houses which rose on either side were many of them broken, and the holes stuffed with dirty rags. In the grey light of the raw autumn day the place had an indescribably squalid appearance.

Half-way up the alley, which rose steeply towards the main part of the town, there passed them a thin, wiry-looking man of about forty years of age. He was carrying a small black bag, and walked with a slight limp.

The boys both noticed him because he was such a contrast to the ordinary inhabitants of this part of the town. His dark tweeds were well cut, his linen was white, and his brown boots perfectly polished. In spite of his slight lameness and his quiet attire, there was something distinguished about him. He was the sort to attract attention even in a crowd.

“A service man, I’ll bet,” said Austin, glancing after him. “Navy probably.”

“I wonder what he’s doing in this beastly slum,” said Clive.

Austin shrugged his broad shoulders.

“May have got a yacht down in the Cattewater,” he said. And then, with a sudden change of tone, “Hulloa, that chap’s following him!”

Out of a dark archway had glided a most villainous-looking loafer–a squat, beetle-browed blackguard, dressed in greasy overalls and an old brown fisherman’s jersey. His cap was pulled well down over his forehead, but failed to hide as vicious a face as either of the two boys had ever set eyes on.

“I believe you’re right,” replied Clive, in a low tone. “Keep moving, Austin. Don’t let him see you’re looking at him.”

The two walked slowly on, but each keeping the tail of his eye on the loafer, who had quickened his pace, and was keeping about twenty yards behind the man with the black bag.

Austin pinched Clive’s arm.

“There’s another,” he said, in a sharp whisper. “See–coming out of that turning on the other side of the street.”

Clive glanced quickly round.

The new arrival on the scene was not quite so repulsive- looking as the first man, but appeared every bit as dangerous. He was a foreigner, and by his yellow-brown face and high cheek- bones apparently from the Far East.

He was dressed in ordinary seaman’s kit, but in spite of his rough garb and heavy boots there was something suggestive of a panther in his soft, swift step and agile movements.

As he came out of the turning he gave one quick glance at the man with the black bag, then, keeping on his own side of the street, followed the other two.

“There’s not a doubt about it,” said Austin Chesney; “both those men are after him. I don’t half like the look of it.”

“More do I,” said Clive. “I vote we turn and follow them.”

“Just what I was going to suggest,” replied Austin, quietly. And, suiting the action to the word, he turned, and the two began to walk quickly, but as quietly as possible, down hill behind the other three.

The first ruffian quickened his pace, and, catching up the lame man, passed him.

“False alarm, after all,” muttered Austin.

“Don’t you be too sure,” replied Clive.

The words were hardly out of his mouth before the foreigner broke into a sharp run, and coming up behind the lame man with surprising speed and silence, snatched the bag out of his hand, and bolted straight on down the alley as hard as he could leg.

With a cry of rage the lame man started in pursuit, and it astonished the boys to see how fast he could travel in spite of his limp.

But now the beetle-browed fellow took a hand, or rather a foot, in the game.

As the lame man came opposite he thrust out one leg and tripped him, sending him sprawling on hands and knees on the slimy cobbles. Then he darted off at top speed after his confederate.

By this time the boys were both running hard in pursuit. They did not wait to pick up the lame man, but as they dashed past Austin shouted:

“Don’t worry. We’ll get your bag back.”

The fellow who had tripped the lame man heard Austin, turned his head, saw the two boys in full chase, and redoubled his pace. At the same time he gave his accomplice a warning shout.

Austin and Clive were both pretty fast, and they gained on him hand over fist. Within fifty yards they were almost level.

Suddenly the ruffian swung round and turned on them, brandishing a sheath-knife.

“Get back!” he cried, with a horrible threat. “Get back, or I’ll do for you!”

Austin had a heavy walking-stick. Without checking at all, he ran straight at the fellow, and with a sweeping blow caught him clean across the knuckles.

A howl of pain escaped him, and the knife flew from his numbed fingers and spun tinkling across the cobbles.

“Get on, Clive, and catch the other chap,” shouted Austin. “I can tackle this beggar.”

With one glance behind him Clive sped on.

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