Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 021 - The Sea Magician

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THE SEA MAGICIAN
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE KILLING SPOOK
? Chapter II. KING JOHN’S CAPTIVE
? Chapter III. THE PRIVATE DETECTIVE
? Chapter IV. SOUTH AMERICA BOUND
? Chapter V. THE UNCLE IN INDIA
? Chapter VI. THE MAN OF BRONZE
? Chapter VII. THE GOLD MAKER
? Chapter VIII. THE SAMARITAN
? Chapter IX. SEA SPAWN
? Chapter X. THE KING JOHN TRAIL
? Chapter XI. THE PLANT IN THE MARSH
? Chapter XII. KING JOHN’S GOBLET
? Chapter XIII. THE ATTEMPT TO KILL
? Chapter XIV. GOLD FROM THE SEA
? Chapter XV. ATTACK IN LONDON
? Chapter XVI. FLAME THREADS
? Chapter XVII. TROUBLE IN THE NIGHT
? Chapter XVIII. THE SCHOOL HOUSE
? Chapter XIX. KING JOHN’S LOOT
Chapter I. THE KILLING SPOOK
THE item which really got Doc Savage embroiled in the fantastic affair was one which came out in a London
afternoon newspaper.
KING’S SPOOK KILLS
The good farmers in The Wash marshlands of Holland county are saying today that King John’s ghost took
another victim last night in the person of Joseph Shires, the peasant farmer who staggered into his home,
mortally wounded.
Joseph Shires is reported to have gasped out that King John’s ghost stabbed him; then he died.
The thing now puzzling the local police is that wounds in the dead man’s body do look as if they had been
made by an ancient broadsword such as King John, English ruler who reigned in the thirteenth century, might
have carried.
Another puzzling thing is the tradepiece, or coin, dated 1216, which was found in Joseph Shires’s pocket
after he died. King John reigned in 1216.
Moreover, it is rumored that numerous persons in the vicinity of The Wash have recently seen a King John
apparition—a towering ogre in armor, carrying a broadsword. King John is even said to have spoken to some,
proclaiming his identity.
All in all, though, the police are inclined to believe the ghost stories are on a par with the sea serpent tales
given such wide publicity some months ago. They are questioning Joseph Shires’s neighbors, seeking to
ascertain if one did not commit the crime with some farm implement, perhaps a scythe.
It was probable that quite a number of persons read this article, but it created no great stir among most of
those who perused it, for the bit was relegated to an inside page, since Joseph Shires was not an individual
who had ranked highly.
William Harper Littlejohn was one exception. He first read the story casually, then went over it again with
greatly accelerated interest.
WILLIAM HARPER LITTLEJOHN was a very tall man, and he was also thinner than it seemed any human
being could be and still live. His intimates frequently described him as looking like the advance agent for a
famine.
When William Harper Littlejohn stood before gatherings of geologists and archaeologists, no one smiled at
the fact that he resembled an empty suit of clothes standing erect, nor commented on the monocle with
which he always fumbled but never stuffed in an eye. William Harper Littlejohn was conceded to know more
about archaeology and geology than almost any living man.
The item about the royal spook that killed caught William Harper Littlejohn’s eye because he was hunting
excitement. He had been lecturing for some weeks before the Fellowhood of Scientists, and he was getting
tired of it.
One would never suspect it by looking at him, but William Harper Littlejohn’s big love in life was excitement.
He was happiest when in trouble.
That was why he was one of Doc Savage’s group of five aides. Trouble was Doc Savage’s business—other
person’s troubles. For Doc Savage was that amazing man of bronze, that combination of scientific genius and
physical daring, who made a business of helping others out of serious trouble.
"Johnny"—he was called that by Doc Savage and his group of assistants—laid aside the newspaper which
contained the spook story. He fished two radiograms from a pocket. The first was dated four days previously
and read:
ARRIVING IN LONDON IN FIVE DAYS
DOC SAVAGE
The second radiogram, dated only a few hours later than the first, was evidently in answer to a message of
inquiry which Johnny had dispatched, and read:
SORRY BUT WE HAVE NO ACTION TO PROMISE STOP AM COMING ONLY TO FILL SHORT LECTURE
ENGAGEMENT BEFORE FELLOWHOOD OF SCIENTISTS
DOC
Johnny sighed gloomily. That second message had been a great disappointment, for he had held visions of
Doc Savage coming to England for the purpose of helping some one who was in trouble. This would have
been sure to mean plenty of action.
JOHNNY looked at the newspaper again and reached an abrupt decision. Doc Savage was not due in London
until the following day; he would reach Southampton that night by liner. There was time, before his arrival, for
a short trip up to The Wash to investigate this story of a kingly spook who slew with a broadsword. Johnny
reached for the telephone.
"Connect me with the nearest aëronautical depot," he requested; then, having secured his connection, he
stated, "Would it be feasible to charter an aërial conveyance for an immediate peregrination?"
"For a what?" the voice wanted to know.
"For an immediate noctambulation to the neighborhood of The Wash," said Johnny.
Johnny never used a small word when he had time to think of a big one. He was a walking dictionary of words
of more than three syllables, and when he was really going good, an ordinary man could not even understand
him.
"I’m not sure what you want, gov’nor," the voice at the airport told him. "But if you’ve got the money to pay for
it, you can get it here."
"Expect me shortly," Johnny advised.
Hardly more than two hours later, his chartered plane deposited Johnny close to the village of Swineshead,
which was on the edge of that great stretch of marshland surrounding the curious tidal bay known as The
Wash. Johnny paid off his pilot and watched the plane take the air on its return trip to London. Johnny
intended to charter another plane the next day, or motor back to the metropolis.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Johnny found that Swineshead pubs were still open, catering to various local
citizens, not a few of whom were sufficiently inebriated to talk freely.
Johnny underwent a curious change. In engaging the plane and during the flight, he had scarcely spoken a
sentence containing words small enough for the pilot to understand. But now he cocked his hat over an eye,
tucked his monocle-magnifier where it would not be noticed, and began speaking a brand of English which
would have shocked his learned colleagues of the Fellowhood of Scientists. Furthermore, his manner was
certainly not that of an intellectual giant.
He asked questions about John Shires, whom King John’s ghost was supposed to have stabbed to death
with a broadsword. He learned several things.
For instance, the citizens of Swineshead—those abroad at this unearthly hour, at least—were fully convinced
King John was really a spectral reality. Two men insisted absolutely that they had seen him.
"Hi talked to the bloomin’ king not a fortnight ago!" asserted one man; then he paused to quaff the ale which
Johnny thoughtfully provided. "‘Twas while Hi was ‘untin’ ‘ares in the rushes near the shore o’ The Wash. King
John walked right up an’ gabbed to me, ‘e did."
JOHNNY studied his informant, wondering just how intoxicated the fellow was; the speaker was pleasantly
flushed, but certainly not entirely inebriated.
"How did you know he was King John’s ghost?" Johnny asked quite seriously.
"‘E told me so," said the other.
"Told you?"
"‘E did, an’ that’s the truth, gov’nor. I’d ‘ave known it anyway, on account of the way ‘e was dressed. ‘Ad on a
coat of mall, ‘e did, and carried a bloomin’ broadsword. It was King John, all right. I’ve seen ‘is pictures in the
school books."
Johnny paid for more ale. "What was this talk about?"
"Mostly about whether King John’s ghost was to kill me or not," said the informant.
"Kill you?"
"‘E claimed as ‘ow I was the bloke who give ‘im poison seven hundred years ago. ‘E said ‘e was ‘untin’ that
bloke. Said ‘e’d been ‘untin’ seven ‘undred years, and that ‘e’d finally find the bloke who poisoned ‘im, an
when that ‘appened, ‘e’d run the lad through with ‘is broadsword."
"Very interesting," said Johnny.
"King John’s ghost said as ‘ow ‘e killed people ‘e met in ‘is nightly wanderings, just on the chance ‘e’d get
the bloke who done the poisoning," the other went on. "Said ‘e wasn’t quite sure who did poison ‘im, and
that’s why ‘e did so much killin’."
"I see," said Johnny. "Was there anything else?"
"Only that Hi’d better stay away from The Wash," the other man muttered. "King John’s ghost said as ‘ow ‘e
might kill me next time we met. Said ‘e was liable to kill anybody ‘e met. I think that’s ‘ow poor Joseph
Shires got ‘is."
"Is this ghost usually seen in the same vicinity?" Johnny questioned.
"Mostly, yes, gov’nor," declared the other. "‘E ‘angs out near the mouth of the Wellstream."
Johnny retired to the quiet of the village street to consider what he had learned. King John, so history said,
had been poisoned in this vicinity, and as a result of which, had died. King John had been a violent and
intemperate ruler, Johnny recalled having read. It was King John who had signed the Magna Charta which
formed the charter of English liberties and the inspiration of the "personal rights" portion of the United States
constitution.
King John had a very violent temper, history said, and after being forced to sign the Magna Charta, had rolled
on the floor, bit the oak legs of a table, and butted his head against a stone wall. Then he had raised an army
and gone out to rob the barons who had forced him to sign. It was on this foray that he had died, either from
overeating peaches and drinking new cider—or from poisoning.
Johnny fumbled out his monocle and twirled it idly, a habit he had when puzzled. He did not believe in ghosts
abroad with armor and broadswords, but at the same time, the story of the apparition was a bit too prevalent
to be dismissed.
"I’ll be superamalgamated!" he murmured. "I think I shall investigate more comprehensively."
THE NIGHT was not much further along when Johnny turned up alone in the region of the junction of the river
Wellstream and The Wash. Since it was night and the region one without population, the eminent
archaeologist shed shoes, socks and trousers and moved about clad only in underwear shorts, vest, coat and
shirt. His bony shanks presented a grotesque appearance.
Frequent stretches of water and bog holes made the dishabille necessary. There were also patches of
quicksand, very treacherous, which could best be detected with bare feet.
At first, Johnny attempted to reach the beach and follow that, but he surrendered this idea upon discovering
that there was actually no beach, but only salt water grass and mud flats. It was a grim and dreary region
which presented an aspect similar to nothing so much as a storm-swept wheat field of vast expanse, spotted
here and there with pools and stretches of slime.
He had been prowling the vicinity for perhaps an hour when he had a narrow escape. The tide came in. It was
not like the advance of ordinary tide, this one, but it came in swiftly, rolling over the salt marsh a good deal
faster than it was possible for a man to run. Johnny was soaked to the belt line before he reached higher
ground.
He stood on a knoll, among gnarled bushes, and eyed the marshes surrounding The Wash with new respect.
The moon was out, and the tidal waters creeping through the marsh grass caused the latter to undulate as if
it were fur on the back of some fabulous monster.
Johnny jumped a full foot in the air when a hollowly ominous voice spoke behind him.
"Turnest thou around, that thine face may be seen!" commanded the sepulchral tones.
Johnny whirled, his first inclination being to laugh. The words were so foreign to the English of the present
day that they were comical. But the bony geologist forgot to be mirthful as he looked at the figure before him.
Chapter II. KING JOHN’S CAPTIVE
THE INDIVIDUAL who had spoken might have stepped from the pages of some historical tome, for his garb
was that of a fighting man of the thirteenth century. Chain mail of fine workmanship shod him from head to
foot, and over that was worn a short gown affair of white silk which was gathered in by a belt that supported a
dagger and a short sword, both in scabbards.
The features of the apparitional being were concealed behind a fierce bush of black beard. The eyes were
dark, piercing, the nose a hooked beak.
Tilted back over a shoulder, rifle fashion, the figure carried one of the biggest broadswords Johnny had ever
seen in a museum or outside of one.
"For the love of mud!" Johnny gulped, forgetting his big words for once.
"Ah," breathed the apparition. "Me thinks thou art the rascal who touched my wine goblet with poison."
The absurdity of the picture the other presented again seized Johnny, who was an extremely modern
gentleman who did not believe in ghosts in any form. He burst into a snort of laughter.
"Listen, my friend," he chuckled. "Why the masquerading in that rig?"
The ghostly figure advanced two paces, the chain mail clinking and grinding softly, the moonlight shimmering
on the metallic links.
"Fool, dost thou not know to whom thou speakest?" demanded the cavernous voice.
"To King John, I suppose," Johnny said dryly.
Then Johnny’s facetiousness suddenly evaporated, for he caught sight of brownish stains upon the
broadsword which certainly looked like remnants of dried blood.
"Down to thy knees!" rumbled the figure. "Dost thou not know how to come before royalty?"
Johnny stood his ground warily. He was now convinced that he faced a madman, some poor fellow who had
gone insane and imagined himself to be the long-dead English ruler. The fellow was probably violent, and
there was no telling what he would do.
"What are you doing here, King John?" Johnny queried.
"Somewhere in these fens dwells the person who didst cause me to die," boomed the one in mail. "I hunt
him. Methinks thou art he."
Johnny was carrying his shoes, socks and trousers under an arm. They made a compact bundle which he
shifted uncertainly.
"I thought you found the poisoner last night," he said.
"What meanest thou?"
"Didn’t you chop a fellow up with that broadsword last night?" Johnny elaborated. "He was a farmer named
Joseph Shires."
The black-bearded head shook slowly. "King John dost not trouble to remember the events which art in the
past."
A hopeless lunatic, Johnny decided firmly. If the fellow was permitted to continue running loose, no telling
how many persons he would slay or injure. It would be a service to the English countryside if he were seized
and confined in an institution where he belonged.
Johnny knew insane persons could often be persuaded to do things, if one sympathized with them.
"I am not the man who poisoned you," he told the other solemnly. "But I know where he can be found,
perhaps."
"Whence?" questioned the figure.
"In the village of Swineshead," Johnny said promptly. "Come with me and I will show you the way."
If Johnny could get the individual who claimed to be King John to the village, he could be seized easily. He
could be seized here, too, if care was used, but there might be difficulty in getting him out of the marsh. If he
could be persuaded to come out under his own power, so much the better.
But King John’s ghost balked. "Nay, vassal. I knowest the one who poisoned me can be found here. I think
thou art he!"
Lunging suddenly, the mailed figure slashed furiously at Johnny’s head with his broadsword.
JOHNNY ducked. Simultaneously, he hurled the bundle composed of his shoes, socks and trousers. The
lump of clothing hit the other in the face just as the broadsword missed Johnny’s head.
The bony geologist leaped forward, feet-first. He landed squarely on the other’s midriff. Air tore through the
black beard with a swishing moan and the fellow went over backward.
Johnny pounced on the wide handle of the broadsword. It was intended for two-fisted operation anyway, and
there was room enough for him to get a grip. He wrenched and wrestled, got the weapon, then threw it away.
A mailed fist bounced off Johnny’s head, leaving a ringing and colored lights behind in his skull. He pumped
two blows at his foe, but only barked his knuckles on the chain mail armor.
The fight was, Johnny perceived, going to be tough. The other was a big man, and strong; moreover, the
fellow was incased in the protective linkage of metal.
Seizing his foe’s arms, Johnny tried to hold the fellow. The other snapped like a dog at his throat. Johnny
retaliated by sticking a thumb in one of his opponent’s eyes. They went over and over in the reeds and soft
mud.
William Harper Littlejohn’s eminent associates in the Fellowhood of Scientists would have been surprised to
see him now, for the famous geologist and archaeologist was showing a knowledge of gutter fighting methods
which would have been envied by the most brutal London dockwalloper. At that, he was barely holding his
own.
The pseudo King John had lost the use of one eye temporarily, thanks to Johnny’s probing thumb. But
Johnny’s lips were split, he had lost his coat, and his shirt hung to his person only by the sleeves.
Johnny managed to jam both hands inside the facial opening of the armor hood and got hold of his foe’s
throat. He squeezed; at the same time, he wrapped his bony legs around the other’s torso, pinioning his
arms.
King John began making squawking sounds. His dark face purpled. Foam shot past his teeth and his tongue
came out. Finally his struggle weakened.
Johnny ceased his choking before the other was seriously damaged, and utilized stripes of his own torn
garments for binding. Yanking the knots tight, he started to stand erect—and a firecracker seemed to go off
in the back of his head.
He saw the black muck of the marsh rush up at his face; he seemed to plunge far down into the earth where
it was infinitely black and silent, and to remain there for a long time.
WHEN JOHNNY came up out of the earth and opened his eyes, the pseudo King John was standing at his
side, leaning on the broadsword.
"What—what happened?" Johnny gulped vaguely.
"Mine faithful horse came to mine rescue," rumbled the other. "Yea. With his hoofs, mine animal subdued
thee."
"Hell," growled Johnny, and felt of the back of his head.
There was a knob on the rear of his cranium, and it did feel as if a horse had kicked him. But Johnny knew no
horse could have approached without being seen or heard. A horse could not travel over this marshy ground,
anyway, because quicksands were too plentiful.
Johnny sat up. He was promptly knocked back with a forcible blow from the flat of the heavy broadsword, but
before that happened, he saw that there was no one else around them. The marsh was as empty of life as if
no one dwelled within hundreds of miles.
The figure in chain mail was rubbing his throat where Johnny’s fingers had tightened, this indicating the fight
must not have occurred long ago. The moon had not changed its position perceptibly, so Johnny concluded
he had not been unconscious for long.
Throat massaged to his satisfaction, Johnny’s captor fumbled inside his white-silk doublet and produced a
flint and tinder device for starting a fire. This surprised Johnny. He stared at the apparatus. Then he whistled
softly in astonishment.
The fire-making mechanism was undoubtedly ancient, an historical piece. It was deeply pitted, as if it had lain
in the weather for a long time, but was still serviceable. It struck sparks, the tinder ignited, and the flame was
applied to a tallow candle which the ghostly figure also brought from under the white doublet. The figure bent
over a pile of papers lying on the soft marsh muck.
Johnny, staring, perceived that the contents of his own pockets were being inspected. Among these was a
weapon which resembled an overgrown automatic pistol, but which was in reality a machine pistol capable of
firing shots with extreme rapidity.
The weapon was an invention of Doc Savage, and Doc’s men all carried them, although they used them only
on occasions of extreme necessity. Doc Savage and his five aides made it a practice never to take human life
directly. They never killed an enemy, even when their lives were in the greatest danger.
The pseudo King John seemed unfamiliar with firearms, and fumbled the weapon in a manner which caused
Johnny’s thin hair to stand erect.
"Turn that thing the other way!" Johnny snapped. "You’ll shoot somebody!"
The other seemed not to hear, but put the machine pistol down and picked up the papers.
"Verily, it is a strange writing which men use these days," he remarked.
Among the papers was the cablegram which Johnny had received from Doc Savage, advising of Doc’s arrival
in London. Its text was such to indicate that Johnny was one of Doc’s five aides.
The weird individual who claimed to be King John seemed greatly interested in the cablegram. He scowled
blackly at Johnny.
"Are you one of Doc Savage’s men?" he growled.
JOHNNY did his best to keep from starting—for the other had spoken without using the weird English of other
centuries.
"What difference does it make?" Johnny demanded.
"Are you?" the other snarled.
"Yes," said Johnny.
The figure in armor swore explosively, and they were violent Twentieth century oaths.
"Did Doc Savage send you up here?" he questioned harshly.
"No," Johnny denied.
"I think that’s a damn lie, bloke!" snarled the other.
Johnny squirmed about, realizing fully for the first time that his arms and legs were loosely but effectively
bound with stout cotton cords. He could move, but not enough to put up a fight.
"You seem to have abandoned your antiquated mannerisms of speech, King John," he suggested.
The other only glared.
Johnny, studying the man, abruptly decided the fellow was not insane after all, and that meant the individual
had been playing the King John role for a deliberate purpose.
"What is the game?" Johnny asked sharply.
"Bloke, it’ll be a long time before you know!" the other snarled.
He lunged over suddenly and struck Johnny with his broadsword. He used the flat of the blade, but the blow
was heavy and sufficient to introduce Johnny to quick unconsciousness.
"Doc Savage must have sent you up here!" the pseudo King John told Johnny’s insensible form. "And that’ll
bear lookin’ into."
Chapter III. THE PRIVATE DETECTIVE
SOUTHAMPTON is one of the major ports for express passenger traffic across the Atlantic, and, as such,
had seen the arrival and departure of more than one notable.
The chief London and Paris newspapers had ship reporters regularly assigned to the port, and it was a rare
occasion when a personage arrived who was so important that the battery of regular journalists was amplified
by the arrival of additional special writers.
But tonight, some of the leading newspapermen of England and the Continent were on hand as snorting tugs
pushed a certain transatlantic liner into her berth. The journalists were augmented by a battery of cameramen
and quite a number of curious citizens.
The mayor was down in his robes of office, and numerous Englishmen of high rank were present in full
regalia. Had a foreign potentate been arriving, the reception would hardly have been more elaborate.
It was all in honor of Doc Savage, the man of mystery, the individual who was a symbol of scientific
knowledge and physical daring, the man who was by way of being the supreme adventurer of all time.
The newspapermen were down there because Doc Savage never did things in the ordinary fashion. Almost
any move he made was good for a headline. Furthermore, it was a fact that Doc Savage did not look with a
permissive eye on newspaper publicity. He was that rare individual, a celebrity who did not care about seeing
his name and picture in the newspaper. More particularly, he did not care about seeing his picture, because it
gave his enemies a means of familiarizing themselves with his physical appearance.
The reluctance which Doc Savage displayed toward newspaper publicity had the effect of making the
journalists more determined. Had Doc Savage hired a publicity agent and showed a desire for news space,
the scribes would have ignored him to a degree; as it was, they fell over themselves to get a story about him.
The high-ranking Englishmen were present because Doc Savage had done great service for their country in
the past. For instance, there were delicate procedures in surgery which the unusual man of mystery had
instituted and which had saved numerous lives. Too, there were charities to which Doc Savage had
contributed enormous sums of money—money which, incidentally, he had taken from villainous individuals
who had no right to it.
Doc Savage had cabled specifically that there was to be no reception in his honor; but the Englishmen had
ignored that. They stood at the gangplank with the journalists and scrutinized each passenger to alight, in
search of their remarkable visitor.
Roustabouts unloaded baggage at the cargo gangway, sweating and swearing. Several of these noted a tall
figure which strode past them and went ashore.
The individual wore a turban and a flowing robe. His face was almost hidden by a ruffle of the robe, but that
portion of it which showed to view was a nut-brown color.
The roustabouts, thinking the one who had disembarked was an oriental, of which several were aboard the
liner, paid no great attention, especially after they saw the individual in the turban show the proper papers to
an officer on the dock. They did note that officer bowed with marked deference after he had seen the name on
the papers.
Observers would have been surprised had they seen the strange personage after he entered an unused shed
on the shore end of the dock.
Indeed, one person was watching as the individual in the turban entered the shack, but this watcher kept out
of sight behind a huge wooden bitt on the dock, being very careful not to show himself.
AS SOON as he was concealed inside the shed, the man who had just come ashore removed the turban. A
few strokes erased brown grease paint from his features. He had been walking with a stoop, but as he
whipped off the white robe, he straightened.
The erstwhile wearer of oriental garb, when he left the shack, was a striking personality. He seemed
enormously larger than he had before, but it was only by comparing his size to the proportions of the shack
that his true Herculean build was evident.
The man’s complexion was a metallic bronze, a hue that could only have come from exposure to a good
many tropical suns. His hands and neck were notable for the unearthly size of the tendons and muscles
which stood out under the bronze skin at each movement.
Most striking of all, however, were the eyes which caught stray light rays from a near-by street lamp. They
were weird eyes, like pools of flake-gold which were being stirred continuously. There was a strange quality in
them, a power to compel. They were hypnotic eyes.
The bronze man’s features were regular, firm, and possessed an aspect of undeniable handsomeness. He
swung along the gloomy street with a silent, athletic ease.
So outstanding was his appearance that a cab driver, glimpsing him by chance, stopped short and stared,
mouth agape.
"Blimme!" breathed the hackman. "Wouldn’t that bloke be a tough one in a fight!"
It was many hours before that hack driver ceased to see, in his mental eye, the astounding bronze man
whom he had merely glimpsed.
The driver was so awe-struck that he failed to note a furtive individual who passed him in the near-by gloom.
This man was the one who had been watching from behind the dock bitt, and he was trailing the giant of
bronze. He did his shadowing furtively, showing experience at the art, and he seemed confident that the
bronze man had not observed him.
The bronze man seemed in no hurry, nor did he give evidence of having a definite destination. He walked to
the north, then swung west, and came finally to a corner. He loitered there for a time, apparently waiting for
some one. His hands rested behind him, as if to support his weight, as he lounged against the corner.
The man who was shadowing the bronze individual was not close enough to note that the bronze man was
doing something with one of his hands—he was apparently writing on the glass of the show window against
which he leaned.
After a while, the bronze man walked on, moving slowly, heading into streets which were dark and filled with
smells none too appetizing.
The shadow fell in behind.
SLIGHTLY less than five minutes later, two men approached the corner where the bronze giant had loitered
and written on the glass show window. These two newcomers carried bags, and came from the direction of
the dock where the transatlantic liner had tied up.
The pair were quarreling. They seemed on the point of flying at each other’s throats.
"You awful mistake of nature!" gritted the one who was slender and extremely dapper of dress, and who
carried a thin, black cane. "I’m ashamed to be seen with you, and especially with that filthy hog you’re
leading!"
"A horse collar for you, you overdressed shyster!" growled the other.
The latter’s head came scarcely to the shoulders of his companion, who was not tall. But the man lacked
very little of being as wide as he was tall. His arms were some inches longer than his stubby, bowed legs,
and hands and wrists were rusty monstrosities from which grew hairs as thick as small shingle nails.
The man had an incredibly homely face, garnished with a mouth so huge that it seemed his maker had had
an accident. He could easily be mistaken for a gorilla on the gloomy street.
"Go on, take a taxi to your hotel," snapped the man with the black cane. "Otherwise, some of these bobbies
are likely to throw you in the local zoo, you missing link!"
The homely one said with a small, almost childlike voice, "If you think I like going around with an overdressed
snob, you’re nuts, you pain in the neck!"
At the apish man’s heels trailed a pig. The pig was a remarkable specimen of the porker family, obviously a
runt who would never grow beyond his present size—that of a small dog. The pig had long, thin legs, a gaunt
body, and ears so huge that they looked as if they might serve for wings in an emergency.
The dapperly dressed man glared at the pig and wrenched at his black cane, which came apart near the
handle, disclosing that it was a sword cane with a blade of fine steel.
"I’m certainly going to turn that hog into breakfast bacon one of these days, Monk!" he promised fiercely.
"Any time you’re ready, Ham," growled the apish "Monk."
They came within sight of the corner where the bronze man had loitered. They stopped, seeming surprised.
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THESEAMAGICIANADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEKILLINGSPOOK?ChapterII.KINGJOHN’SCAPTIVE?ChapterIII.THEPRIVATEDETECTIVE?ChapterIV.SOUTHAMERICABOUND?ChapterV.THEUNCLEININDIA?ChapterVI.THEMANOFBRONZE?ChapterVII.THEGOLDMAKER?Ch...

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