Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

Throwing every ounce of strength I possessed into the effort, I hurled him from his feet and we landed heavily on the ground, my arm still locked around his head. Then I began to tighten my hold, and though he kicked and struggled mightily, I managed to retain my grasp. I gripped him until I thought my arm would break upon his hard skull.

His struggles became weaker and weaker. Now was the time to drop him and flee for my life. That would be the wiser course, I decided, but before I could act the back door of the house banged open and a square patch of light fell into the yard. The man with the injured arm had gone for help and the rescue crew, composed of six or seven hefty fellows, was running toward me. All of them were carrying clubs and knives.

It was all up with me. That was plain. I tightened my hold viciously, I would make my friend Alf feel like he had thrust his head into a vise.

Now the crowd was upon me. I dropped Alf and lumbered to my feet waiting dourly for the attack. The first man who leaped at me got a solid punch in the eye and he fell back with an exclamation of pain.

“Well, by God, if it isn’t the demon doctor himself!”

The huge youth was speaking and I whirled to confront him. A final swing at his square chin would not be amiss.

Then a blow from a club knocked me to my knees. Another blow and I was down. They swarmed over me.

Now I was being carried away, floating easily between many dark figures. Faintly I heard the complaining voice of Alf.

“Blake,” said my late opponent with a string of oaths, “is a damned liar. He said this guy was a sawbones who couldn’t lick anybody. I’ll say this bimbo can trim any three men in the crowd.”

I laughed insanely.

And after that I knew nothing.

Chapter VIII The Chief Buccaneer

There was the smell of damp stones mixed with the savory odor of cooking. Also there was the swirling sound of running water. A man laughed boisterously and the measured tread of many feet intruded upon my bewildered senses.

Then I realized that I was lying upon a bed and I sat up. As I did so, I turned sick and dizzy and the strange place began to reel before my eyes. My hand went to my head and came away covered with blood, my hair was matted and my face felt stiff and swollen.

I got to my feet and looked about me. I was in a small room with stone walls and one heavily barred window. It was furnished with a narrow bed, a pine table, a chair and a candle. Over it all hung the heavy atmosphere of disuse.

I staggered to the window and looked out upon the river. It was daylight, early morning I judged, for the cold mists were just rising from the waters. I must be on one of the several little islands which dotted the surface of the stream just below the city.

My prison appeared to be an old null. I looked at the bars and smiled grimly. They were new. Blake and his crew must have anticipated my visit or the place had been used to hold others who did not fit in with his schemes.

Close beside my prison and separated from it only by a small courtyard was another building of stone. It, too, had barred windows and a heavy door. Another jail? I was looking at it rather unsteadily when the door swung open and the girl in the green dress stepped out.

She wore a dark cloak about her shoulders, but her head was bare and her dark hair shone in the gray light. Walking swiftly to the river’s edge, she suddenly flung herself to her knees and raised her eyes in supplication to the sky.

She was praying and as her lips moved, the tears coursed down her cheeks and fell upon the cold stones. Then she suddenly buried her face in her arms and her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

I paced the room in agitation and dismay. What new turn of events was this? Why did this self-possessed young woman now weep her heart out? I returned to the window and tried to call to her, but my voice was but a dismal croak. Feeling cold and sick I lurched to the door and, much to my surprise, found that it was open.

Clinging to the banister for support I made my way down the stairs to a hallway on the first floor. There were no windows here, and I paused for a moment until my eyes were accustomed to the gloom. Then I began feeling along the wall for the doorway which would let me into the courtyard where the girl lay weeping.

I had walked but a few steps when I became aware of the presence of another person, a lean, dark man who was staring at me from a corner.

“Somewhat the worse for wear, eh?” asked the man. He bit off his words venomously.

I held myself as stiffly upright as my sagging knees would permit and stared back at him. He was a lithe, young fellow of glowing vitality and a quick eye, dressed in a black, loose-fitting suit, a white silk shirt and a flowing bow tie.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“I?” The man threw back his head and bared his teeth in a sardonic smile.

“Yes, you. Are you the chief buccaneer? If so, turn me loose or it will be much the worse for you.”