T.C. Bridges

Driven to Sea

Warsaw 2019

Contents

CHAPTER I. THE MAN IN BLACK

CHAPTER II. THE MASTER OF THE RAINBOW

CHAPTER III. THE DERELICT

CHAPTER IV. THE CASTAWAY TAKES COMMAND

CHAPTER V. THE MAN WITH THE GUN

CHAPTER VI. THE GLADE OF DEATH

CHAPTER VII. THE BARRAMUNDA

CHAPTER VIII. THE SKIPPER'S STORY

CHAPTER IX. THE EMPTY CACHE

CHAPTER X. BARSTOW'S CONDITION

CHAPTER XI. THE GAS-PIT

CHAPTER XII. DICK PLAYS A LONE HAND!

CHAPTER XIII. BURKE CALLS UP REINFORCEMENTS

CHAPTER XIV. THE ROCK PRISON

CHAPTER XV. BARRY'S BID FOR FREEDOM

CHAPTER XVI. BARRY'S DIVE FOR FREEDOM

CHAPTER XVII. CLUB AGAINST SPEAR

CHAPTER XVIII. BURKE OFFERS TERMS

CHAPTER XIX. THE STORM

CHAPTER XX. AFTER DARK

CHAPTER XXI. A GAME OF HIDE-AND-SEEK

CHAPTER XXII. FENG SHIN

CHAPTER XXIII. TERMS.TERMS

CHAPTER XXIV. THE WAVE

CHAPTER XXV. THE BLACK TRAMP

CHAPTER XXVI. CUT OFF FROM THE RAINBOW

CHAPTER XXVII. A NIGHT ATTACK

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE BRANT IS BOARDED

CHAPTER XXIX. CRIPPS PLAYS FOUL!

CHAPTER XXX. THE DEFEAT OF CRIPPS

CHAPTER XXXI. HOMEWARD BOUND

CHAPTER XXXII. THE CRUISER

CHAPTER XXXIII. BURKE'S LAST CARD

CHAPTER XXXIV. WITS WIN

CHAPTER I. THE MAN IN BLACK

“SHAKE a leg, you yellow-faced baboon! Up with it, or, by thunder, I’ll come and make you!”

The tone was worse than the words, and Dick Damer paused in the act of stepping out of the blazing Australian sunshine on to the wide, cool verandah of Warlindi, and stood with a startled expression on his pink-and-white face.

There came a bumping as of furniture being moved inside the house, and a panting sound.

“Got it up at last, have you?” snarled the same voice. “Put it down and fetch the rest. Be smart, or–

The throat that followed will not bear repeating, and Dick went rather white. For a moment he was on the point of turning tail and bolting back the way he had come.

But he had travelled half-way round the world to reach this particular house, and in spite of his spick-and-span, pink-and- white appearance, the boy had plenty of pluck.

He paused, drew a deep breath, then seized the bell-handle and gave it a nervous jerk.

There was a long pause–so long that Dick’s hand moved again towards the bell. But before he could ring a second time the door opened.

Dick saw a heavy, bloated-looking man, with a fat, flabby face and thick, black hair and eyebrows. His clothes were black, so was his tie; even his finger-nails shared in the general mourning. He looked like a funeral mute off duty.

“Who are you?” he asked, in a thick, husky voice. “What do you want?”

“I–I’m Richard Damer,” stammered Dick. “I have come to see my uncle–my uncle–Nicholas Damer.”

The other turned up his eyes with a sanctimonious expression.

“You are too late, my young friend. I regret to say that you are too late. Mr. Darner passed away last Tuesday week.”

Dick’s jaw dropped.

“Dead!” he gasped. “You don’t mean to say he is dead?”

The fat man shook his big head and sighed heavily.

“Alas, it is too true! He had been ailing for a long time, but the end came very suddenly. I was with him to the last.”

“Did–didn’t he leave any message for me?” Dick managed to ask.

The other shook his head.

“He never mentioned you. I never even knew that he had a nephew.”

“B-but he wrote to me to come out,” said Dick. “Here’s his letter. He said he would give me work, and that I could live with him.”

“I know nothing of that. He never spoke of you to me. I was his partner. Crane is my name–Wesley Crane.”

Dick could find no words. He was too staggered to speak.

Wesley Crane watched him with an odd expression in his prominent eyes.

“You’ve come from England?” he asked presently.

“Y-yes; in the Baramula. I only got in this morning.”

“Then you’re staying in Sydney?”

“I’m not staying anywhere. I left my box at the wharf, and came straight up. I–I couldn’t afford to stay at an hotel.”

Crane wagged his great head again.

“Ah, very sad! Well, I can’t ask you to stay here. This place is to be sold, and I am busy taking an inventory. But since you are my late partner’s nephew, I will do what I can for you.”

He took out a pocket-book and scribbled a few words on a leaf, which he tore out.

“Here is the address of a friend of mine who will put you up for the night. To-morrow come to my office in Water Street, and I will see what work can be found for you.”

Dick was touched.

“Thank you very much!” he said gratefully. “It is very kind of you indeed.”

Crane put out a thick, grimy hand.

“That’s all right,” he said. “Well, I’m busy now. Good-bye!”

Dick’s head was in a whirl as he tramped back down the long white road in the hot glare of the Australian sun. He was sixteen, but looked younger. That was the fault of Miss Emma Neate, the aunt who had looked after him since the death of his parents, eleven years before. She had never sent him to a boarding-school, and the result was that, though a well-grown youngster, he had precious little idea of fending for himself. He knew rather less of the world than the average boy of twelve.

Miss Neate herself was not much better, and it was pure ignorance on her part that had caused her to invest most of her money in a wildcat mining scheme. When it failed, and she was left with barely enough to live on, she had jumped at the chance offered to Dick by his Australian uncle, and sent him straight out to Sydney by the first ship.

The news of his uncle’s death had shocked Dick, but as he had never seen him, he naturally did not feel any particular grief. The one question which filled his thoughts during that long walk back to the tram-head was whether the soft-spoken Mr. Wesley Crane was the same person whom he had heard using the appalling language which had greeted his ears at his first approach to Warlindi.

It hardly seemed possible, yet there were ugly doubts in Dick’s mind. Of one thing he was quite sure. He did not like the man, and dreaded the prospect of working for him.

At last he reached the tram. By this time he was pretty well played out. He fell asleep in a corner, and woke to find the tram at rest and the conductor shaking him by the shoulder.

“All change, sonny. This here’s the terminus.”

Dick jumped up with a start. He took the address from his pocket.

“Can you tell me where this is?” he asked.

The conductor glanced at it, then at Dick.

“Bendigo Hotel, Wharf Street. Be you staying there?”

“Yes; just for the present. I was told to.”

The conductor grunted.

“‘Tain’t much of a place. Still, I suppose you knows your own business. Go straight down that street till you gets to the water’s edge, then second turn on the right.”

Dick thanked him, and walked on. The sleep had refreshed him, but he was desperately hungry. Passing a little cook-shop, he went in and asked for a sandwich. As it was being cut he put his hand in his pocket to find some money.

He drew it out, and hastily tried the other.

A cry of dismay escaped him.

“What’s the matter?” demanded the man behind the counter, in a surly tone.

“I–I’ve been robbed!” stammered Dick. “My purse is gone!”

“I’ve heard that tale afore!” remarked the other, with a sneer. “Out you gets–quick!”

This fresh misfortune fairly staggered Dick. True, the purse had only held a sovereign in gold and a little silver, but it was all he had in the world. No doubt it had been taken from him in the tram. At any rate he was now absolutely penniless. He could not even pay the few pence due on his box. Not knowing what else to do, he went straight on to the Bendigo.

This was a narrow-fronted inn standing in a dirty, noisome alley running off the wharf. Over the door was written, “John Bale, licensed to sell beer, spirits, and tobacco.” The look of the place and the smell of it made him sick, but there was no help for it. He went in.

A surly-looking, heavy-jowled man in shirt-sleeves, stood behind the bar.

He eyed Dick suspiciously.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he demanded.

“My name is Damer. Mr. Crane sent me,” answered Dick humbly enough. “He said I was to stay the night.”

“Crane? Oh, Wesley Crane?” The man’s tone became less surly. “All right. I’ll fix you up. Where’s your things?”

Dick explained, and spoke of the loss of his purse.

“More fool you to carry a purse! But don’t you worry. I’ll send across for your box. Had your dinner?”

“I’ve had nothing since breakfast,” confessed Dick. “Take some o’ them biscuits and cheese”–pointing to a basket on the counter.

“Supper’ll be ready soon.”

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