"My little boy," she said next, ignoring the terms of endearment−− "where is he? Let me have him. How
could you be so cruel−−even as you−− Nikolas Rokoff−−cannot be entirely devoid of mercy and
compassion? Tell me where he is. Is he aboard this ship? Oh, please, if such a thing as a heart beats within
your breast, take me to my baby!"
"If you do as you are bid no harm will befall him," replied Rokoff. "But remember that it is your own fault
that you are here. You came aboard voluntarily, and you may take the consequences. I little thought," he
added to himself, "that any such good luck as this would come to me."
He went on deck then, locking the cabin−door upon his prisoner, and for several days she did not see him.
The truth of the matter being that Nikolas Rokoff was so poor a sailor that the heavy seas the Kincaid
encountered from the very beginning of her voyage sent the Russian to his berth with a bad attack of
sea−sickness.
During this time her only visitor was an uncouth Swede, the Kincaid's unsavoury cook, who brought her
meals to her. His name was Sven Anderssen, his one pride being that his patronymic was spelt with a double
"s."
The man was tall and raw−boned, with a long yellow moustache, an unwholesome complexion, and filthy
nails. The very sight of him with one grimy thumb buried deep in the lukewarm stew, that seemed, from the
frequency of its repetition, to constitute the pride of his culinary art, was sufficient to take away the girl's
appetite.
His small, blue, close−set eyes never met hers squarely. There was a shiftiness of his whole appearance that
even found expression in the cat−like manner of his gait, and to it all a sinister suggestion was added by the
long slim knife that always rested at his waist, slipped through the greasy cord that supported his soiled
apron. Ostensibly it was but an implement of his calling; but the girl could never free herself of the
conviction that it would require less provocation to witness it put to other and less harmless uses.
His manner toward her was surly, yet she never failed to meet him with a pleasant smile and a word of thanks
when he brought her food to her, though more often than not she hurled the bulk of it through the tiny cabin
port the moment that the door closed behind him.
During the days of anguish that followed Jane Clayton's imprisonment, but two questions were uppermost in
her mind−−the whereabouts of her husband and her son. She fully believed that the baby was aboard the
Kincaid, provided that he still lived, but whether Tarzan had been permitted to live after having been lured
aboard the evil craft she could not guess.
She knew, of course, the deep hatred that the Russian felt for the Englishman, and she could think of but one
reason for having him brought aboard the ship−−to dispatch him in comparative safety in revenge for his
having thwarted Rokoff's pet schemes, and for having been at last the means of landing him in a French
prison.
Tarzan, on his part, lay in the darkness of his cell, ignorant of the fact that his wife was a prisoner in the cabin
almost above his head.
The same Swede that served Jane brought his meals to him, but, though on several occasions Tarzan had tried
to draw the man into conversation, he had been unsuccessful. He had hoped to learn through this fellow
whether his little son was aboard the Kincaid, but to every question upon this or kindred subjects the fellow
returned but one reply, "Ay tank it blow purty soon purty hard." So after several attempts Tarzan gave it up.
The Beasts of Tarzan
The Beasts of Tarzan 8