Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page A
Tags: action and adventure
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equipped, he worked his way up until he came to the steward in question.
The man’s name was stenciled over his right shirt pocket. It said: TUCKER.
It was all the confirmation the bronze man needed. The steward was older and while not slim, he had lost considerable weight since the last time Doc had encountered him.
Seeing the bronze man, the steward gave Doc a broad smile and said, “How are you doing, Oiler?”
For a moment, Doc experienced a mild shock, thinking he had been recognized, but the use of the seaman’s nickname erased that fear entirely.
“Doing all right,” Doc said in a low voice that mimicked that of Seamen Goines to the best of his ability, which was considerable.
“Better eat this hash while it’s still hot,” grinned Seaman Tucker. “We are running low tonight.”
“Second cook’s hash is always good,” said Doc, smiling back.
That was the extent of the exchange, and Doc took his tray to a table where he could survey the crew as they ate.
Despite loitering over his meal, he spied no more familiar faces. But the presence of the round-faced steward gave the bronze man an inkling of something. Dropping his dishes into an enameled metal tub and putting the empty tray atop a stack, he departed the dining room, and resumed his methodical search.
This time Doc concentrated his efforts on the faces of the Merchant Marines who crewed the Northern Star . They were a varied lot, with more than a few black faces, the Merchant Marine not going in for Jim Crow the way other branches of the service did.
He was not looking for Negro sailors, however.
Seeing Doc passing by, the Chief Engineer accosted him. “Seaman Goines, you are needed down in the engine room. Hop to it.”
“Aye-aye, chief,” said Doc.
The bronze man started in that direction, then reversed himself. He almost bumped into the Second Mate, who, seeing him seemingly at liberty, gave him yet another order.
“Have you chowed down, Oiler?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get about your duties. Make it snappy.”
By the time the third officer had ordered him to another part of the ship, the bronze man had had enough. Doc found a coil of manila rope, thrust one arm through the opening and lugged it around as if taking the line somewhere important.
Thereafter, he was left strictly alone.
Before much longer, Doc spied another familiar face. This individual was youthful, probably in his early twenties, and looked like a younger edition of Abraham Lincoln, sans the Billy goat chin whiskers.
This lank fellow was busy inspecting the canvas covers on the lifeboats, which hung from their cradles.
Doc sidled up to him, got a good look at the name on his blouse, which rather matched his recollection. Taking a chance, he walked up and asked, “Have you seen any sign of Seaman Worth?”
“Boats?” said the young man who resembled the sixteenth President of the United States. “Not in the last hour.”
“Thank you,” said Doc, moving on. By this simple ruse, he had ascertained that three of the four were on board. But the one he was most interested in encountering was Seaman Worth.
Given his thorough job of reconnoitering the ship’s decks, Doc Savage was likely to locate Worth sooner rather than later, except that he turned a corner and almost collided with a bald fellow.
The man was not entirely bald, for there were fringes on either side of his head, but these were close shaven. In the darkness of night, he might as well have been entirely hairless. He was very muscular, and his skin was brown as a coconut shell, minus the stringy hair. He wore dark glasses.
“Excuse me,” said Doc, shifting around the man.
The bald man said nothing, simply pushed forward, evidently having no wish to exchange pleasantries. He was dressed as a civilian, but one who wore the casual attire of a man who had been around boats. His shoes had gum soles, and he walked with a careful and silent tread.
Doc Savage let the man pass on, paused, and
The man’s name was stenciled over his right shirt pocket. It said: TUCKER.
It was all the confirmation the bronze man needed. The steward was older and while not slim, he had lost considerable weight since the last time Doc had encountered him.
Seeing the bronze man, the steward gave Doc a broad smile and said, “How are you doing, Oiler?”
For a moment, Doc experienced a mild shock, thinking he had been recognized, but the use of the seaman’s nickname erased that fear entirely.
“Doing all right,” Doc said in a low voice that mimicked that of Seamen Goines to the best of his ability, which was considerable.
“Better eat this hash while it’s still hot,” grinned Seaman Tucker. “We are running low tonight.”
“Second cook’s hash is always good,” said Doc, smiling back.
That was the extent of the exchange, and Doc took his tray to a table where he could survey the crew as they ate.
Despite loitering over his meal, he spied no more familiar faces. But the presence of the round-faced steward gave the bronze man an inkling of something. Dropping his dishes into an enameled metal tub and putting the empty tray atop a stack, he departed the dining room, and resumed his methodical search.
This time Doc concentrated his efforts on the faces of the Merchant Marines who crewed the Northern Star . They were a varied lot, with more than a few black faces, the Merchant Marine not going in for Jim Crow the way other branches of the service did.
He was not looking for Negro sailors, however.
Seeing Doc passing by, the Chief Engineer accosted him. “Seaman Goines, you are needed down in the engine room. Hop to it.”
“Aye-aye, chief,” said Doc.
The bronze man started in that direction, then reversed himself. He almost bumped into the Second Mate, who, seeing him seemingly at liberty, gave him yet another order.
“Have you chowed down, Oiler?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get about your duties. Make it snappy.”
By the time the third officer had ordered him to another part of the ship, the bronze man had had enough. Doc found a coil of manila rope, thrust one arm through the opening and lugged it around as if taking the line somewhere important.
Thereafter, he was left strictly alone.
Before much longer, Doc spied another familiar face. This individual was youthful, probably in his early twenties, and looked like a younger edition of Abraham Lincoln, sans the Billy goat chin whiskers.
This lank fellow was busy inspecting the canvas covers on the lifeboats, which hung from their cradles.
Doc sidled up to him, got a good look at the name on his blouse, which rather matched his recollection. Taking a chance, he walked up and asked, “Have you seen any sign of Seaman Worth?”
“Boats?” said the young man who resembled the sixteenth President of the United States. “Not in the last hour.”
“Thank you,” said Doc, moving on. By this simple ruse, he had ascertained that three of the four were on board. But the one he was most interested in encountering was Seaman Worth.
Given his thorough job of reconnoitering the ship’s decks, Doc Savage was likely to locate Worth sooner rather than later, except that he turned a corner and almost collided with a bald fellow.
The man was not entirely bald, for there were fringes on either side of his head, but these were close shaven. In the darkness of night, he might as well have been entirely hairless. He was very muscular, and his skin was brown as a coconut shell, minus the stringy hair. He wore dark glasses.
“Excuse me,” said Doc, shifting around the man.
The bald man said nothing, simply pushed forward, evidently having no wish to exchange pleasantries. He was dressed as a civilian, but one who wore the casual attire of a man who had been around boats. His shoes had gum soles, and he walked with a careful and silent tread.
Doc Savage let the man pass on, paused, and
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