The Savage Gentleman (Bison Frontiers of - Philip Wylie, ebook, ebook.1400, Temp 3
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//-->THE SAVAGE GENTLEMANbyPhilip WylieWhat the story is about--The Savage Gentleman was a full six feet two inches tall, and weighed a hundred andninety pounds. His hair was bronze, his eyes turquoise, his skin mahogany. He was amagnificent man. When he laughed his voice poured from deep and resonant lungs. Thisyoung man 'came to New York never having seen a woman: he came to New Yorkfinding himself the owner of a great string of American papers, although he had neverread a newspaper through. This was the young man who was told by his father: "Never,never, never believe a woman. Women are ruin. Love is a myth. Marry when you areover forty-five and marry someone you don't love." This is the story of what happened toa man who had been trained on an island remote from civilization to be a perfect physicalspecimen and a perfect gentleman, when he encountered the mad world of today and themodern girl-and did he pack a wallop!BOOKS ARE WEAPONS--in a free democracy everyone may read what he likes. Bookseducate, inform, inspired they also provide entertainment, bolster morale. This book hasbeen manufactured in conformity with wartime restrictions--read it and pass it on. Ourarmed forces especially need books--you may give them to your nearest U.S.O. office,leave them at your public library, or send them direct to the Commanding Headquartersof any Service Command, marked"For Army Libraries."Books for the Navy should besent to Naval Supply Depot, Norfolk, Va., or Oakland, Calif.This book can be mailed overseas, first class, sealed, without request, bywrapping it so it weighs under eight ounces and affixing postage at the rate of three centsper ounce. Only one book a week may be sent from the same sender to the sameaddressee.A NOVEL OF ADVENTURE AND ROMANCETHE SAVAGE GENTLEMANBy PHILIP WYLIEAuthor of "Night unto Night,""Footprint of Cinderella,""Corpses at Indian Stones," etc.THE SAVAGE GENTLEMANCopyright, MCMXXXII, by Philip Wylie.Reprinted by arrangement with Farrar & Rinehart, Inc., New York, N. Y.............................................................................List of Exciting Chapters--I. The ShipwreckII. The IsolationIII. The StockadeIV. The ExplorersV. The QuestionsVI. The MenaceVII. The YearningVIII. The HopelessnessIX. The MiracleX. The SavageXI. The GentlemanXII. The WomanXIII. The ChallengeXIV. The RecallXV. The GunmenXVI. The HolocaustChapter One:THE SHIPWRECKWITHIN the triangle that is formed by Ceylon, Tasmania and Madagascar, on apitch-black night, shortly before the turn of the last century, a steam yacht beat its wayagainst massive seas.It was a storm-worn vessel. The sails reefed close to its spars were dark andpatched. Its brasswork was not bright. Hot sun had blistered its paint, and salt water hadstripped it away. Yet these ravages could not conceal the ship's jaunty lines or eradicatethe impression of an original luxury--a luxury now being ignored for stern use.It carried no lights, except the dim radiation on the hurricane bridge. The sharpbow lifted and plunged. The single screw beat the black water to foam, turned in the air,and bit again in fresh swirls of phosphorus-flecked froth.The light on the bridge sharply illuminated a compass and was reflected upon thecountenance of a man at the wheel.He was a tall, hawk-like man. His face was seamed and tan, and the dimillumination glinted on eyes that were like jewels in dark pockets. He wore a heavy ulsterand his chin jutted over its collar. He swung with the working of the ship but his stifflyplanted feet did not budge. His hands were tight on the wheel. They were white and long-fingered; the man had a seeming of former luxury like that of the yacht.Eight bells rang on a small ship's clock.The man leaned forward and peered through the deck housing.He saw nothing.Then, abruptly, he began to see. He was looking at the mauled deck before herealized the fact. His horizon expanded with rapidity.The tumultuous scene became visible around him--long ranges of ominousmountains, white-capped and ponderously advancing, and a low-hanging sky thatscudded darkly across the other half of his world.The man's face was statuesque in the fantastic dawn. His lips were taut. His hairwas a dark and rugged forest. In his rigidity, he \vas the image of relentless andunshakable purpose.He seemed not a man in thought, but one whose thoughts had become stonilytransfixed, a man with a grim deed to do, a soldier shot through the heart and still movingforward.Below decks, in a dim stateroom, a baby cried to the unanswering storm andstruggled aimlessly with the rungs which kept it from being thrown to the floor.A man in an oily cap dozed on a braced kitchen chair that had been placed besidea pounding engine.A giant Negro opened his eyes and rose, fully dressed. He tottered to the galleyand began the difficult operation of preparing coffee.There was no one else aboard the hell-bound vessel. Green water washed itself from thename on its stern.It was theFalcon.Its port was New York.The man at the wheel moved his lips. He scrutinized the compass. His gaze wasno longer introverted; with every rise of the bridge it scanned the horizon.The Negro appeared, coffee in a metal bottle; he pulled the door shut against thewind."Morning, Mr. Stone."The man nodded."Coffee."The pilot took the bottle, held it for the Negro to uncork, and drank slowly."Mighty bad weather, sir.""Yes, Jack."That was all. The door opened again. Wind fanned through the enclosed bridge.The Negro fought his way back toward the galley. He went from there by acompanionway to look at the baby. He stood over it for a while, shaking his head.At eleven o'clock the wind died. A patch of blue appeared in the clouds and theircolor changed from purple-black to gray and white. At noon the sun shone.Stone rang to the engine room and the man who bad been there joined him."Take the wheel, Mr. McCobb."The Scotchman complied. He bit his down-turned pipe and glanced occasionallyat his employer. Stone shot the sun and scrawled on a board."Four points east," he said.At two he came up from a visit to the infant and took the wheel."You can go, Mr. McCobb."An expanding of the lips that was not a smile came on Stone's face when he sawthe island. It was, at first, little different from the waves on the remote water--the summitof a blue and vegetated hill. A lost, mist-hung oasis in the desert of the ocean.The baby slept.The Negro made sandwiches.The Scot sat dully beside his engine.From the sea the island emerged. It presented a narrow promontory, but the rise ofhills inland indicated that it was of considerable extent. Immense evergreens grew upon it,interspersed with palms. Its coastline, which theFalconpresently skirted, was rocky andprecipitous. The water around it was blue, brilliant blue beneath a sun now hot and white.Stone steered in shirt sleeves. His eves followed the coast. He signaled for halfspeed.In the engine room the Scotchman jumped at the jangle of the bells. Half speed.meant--what? A caprice of the ship's master? Danger?He did not think of land. In that latitude, no one thought of land.Stone swung toward an indentation. When he seemed on the verge of collidingwith the rocky shore, he swung again.The outbent greenery almost touched the decks of the yacht. In a moment a broadand long harbor opened before the entering vessel. It was a wild, natural, unpopulatedexpanse of water. A green bird came as an escort from the forest and sat upon thebulwarks.The bell jangled for full speed. TheFalcongathered momentum and its coursewas toward a golden beach.There was no expression in Stone's irrevocable eyes. When he was five boatlengths from shore he summoned the engineer to the speaking tube. "On deck, McCobb.We're going aground. You've only a few seconds." The interval of plate-glass waterbetween ship and shore diminished.When theFalconhit, part of her bottom went out. Deep furrows of sand turned upon both sides of the bow.Stone was pressed against the wheel. The splintering crash shook boughs in thejungle and echoed from crystalline escarpments on the hills. The baby was thrust againstthe head of its padded crib and it woke, crying. Steam began to issue' from broken pipeswith a velvety roar and water rushed into the boiler room.McCobb had gained the deck in time to discover the yacht in full motion acrossan unexpected harbor. He saw the oncoming shore and braced himself.After the shock, he lit his pipe and stared methodically at all parts of theunsalvageable wreck which had been theFalcon.Then he walked to the bridge.Stone was gazing at the island, with his arms spread in exultation. The mold of hislong mood had been scorched away. He was like a Crusader who stood at last before thewalls of Jerusalem.McCobb regarded him attentively, breathlessly. He knew that the beaching of theFalconrepresented the attainment of a goal for the ship's master.But what goal?Stone's lips moved. "We're here !"The Scot found himself repeating dully, "Here?"Then he gripped himself. Everything was trance-like. The spell had been brokenand yet its effect lingered. He cleared his throat and tapped his pipe on theledge of a window."We're here, Mr. Stone, wherever here is. And we're here to stay. Stranded. I'mnot a curious man by nature-but I think that since I'm mixed up in this--I should have anexplanation. I trust you'll pardon plain speaking ?"McCobb calculated that his words would jolt Stone into his senses--unless theyhad been lost irretrievably. But theFalcon'sowner merely took his arm and led him tothe open bridge.The sun poured on them and the island lay like jade on all sides of the wreck."It's beautiful," Stone whispered. "Beautiful, beautiful."McCobb squinted his steel eyes. "It's pretty. And I can believe it's dangerous.These islands sometimes are."Stone turned. His transfiguration departed somewhat."Sorry, McCobb. My soul is overwrought. I'll explain--as much as I can explain."At that moment they heard Jack's voice and, turning toward the stern, they sawhim. He was clinging to the rail, his great arms knotty with muscular effort."I see you," he wailed. "You're not there, but I see you. I done crossed overJordan. I done looked at the promised land.""Jack!" Stone called.The Negro presented a melancholy face. "I hear you, too, boss. We'se dead.""Nonsense. We've run aground on an island. Talk to him, McCobb. I'm going tohave a look at the baby."The engineer went down to the deck. He stood beside Jack, and Jack seemed astall again as he."It's all right Jack. We just hit shore here."The Negro shook his head. "I don' know. I don' know. Mr. Stone must of beenmighty restful to run into so much of something after going so long on so little ofnothing." The ellipsis of the observation pleased Jack; he laughed involuntarily.A smile came and went on McCobb's face. "At any rate, we're safe."Yes, boss.""You better get lunch ready--or breakfast.""Yes boss."McCobb went below.Water had filled the coal bunkers, water had flooded the boiler room-water thatwould rise and fall with the tides, bringing corrosion and sand and sea urchins. TheFalconwould never again move.The forward hatches were dry--or fairly so. The pens which contained the fivegoats that furnished milk for the baby, and the chickens which occasionally laid eggs forthe crew of three, were intact The goats. blaa-ed and the chickens cackled. McCobbwondered if they could smell the land.He did not understand the deliberate smashing of the ship, but he had a feelingthat he should understand it, that the clues to comprehension were in his possession. Itwas certainly more than a gesture, assuredly a plan. It explained why Stone had sailedfrom Aden with but two men aboard.McCobb finished his survey. The sound of steam was dying. The danger of firehad passed. He returned to the bridge and opened a large book of charts. His eyetransferred the position Stone had marked on a small map to the general map of theIndian Ocean.He located the island, roughly. Then he looked for trade routes. There was a routefrom Albany to Aden. One from Ceylon to Cape Town. One from Cape Town to Batavia.None came within two days' steaming of this remote speck of land. He had expected that.McCobb had followed marine engines through the seven seas for twenty years, and he
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