. ROSEBURG NEWS-REVIEW. ROSEBURG. OREGON. $ATt!RpAY,. NOVEMBER 2U?36.
The Blue Lagoon
Mystery Of Micai Pearls Solved
As Johnny Cardnal Returns Home
From Quest Of Fathers Secret
, FIVE STAR FICTION w
By Whit Wellman
Part II
, (Conclusion)
JOHNNY Cardnal moved un
easily. "Father told me about you," he
said. "You and mother. Mother is
in San Francisco, alone. Father
didn't leave her anything, Mr
Harden. She has one black pearl,
worth a lot, I guess. Hut she
won't part with it. Even when he
needed money badly, she wouldn't
sell it."
"She knows you came here?'
Timothy's voice grew harsh.
"No, I couldn't tell her. She
wouldn't let me come."
Timothy filled his glass again,
his hands shaking a little. "Bet
ter have a drink," he said. But
the boy refused.
The room grew darker as the
sun fell. There wasn't much dusk
in that part of the world no mar
gin of half-light between day and
night. Timothy raised his glass.
He could find the pearls and
go home to the States. To San
Francisco and Carmel, who hadn't
forgotten. She still wore his gift.
He'd get Torcllo to go into the
lagoon. It would be good to begin
life again with the girl he'd loved.
He didn't owe John Cardnal any
thing, or his son, who now sat
studying him, strangely sure that
Timothy Harden would send div
ers down for him.' Timothy recog
nized that Micai was dead, that
he'd been dying with It. Pearls
from the Tiger Head lagoon
would take him into the world
again, where Carmel lived.
"We'll start tomorrow," he said.
Johnny Cardnal found Timothy
at early brcakfaat, the sun strik
ing red over the village. Torcllo
served silently, padding around
the table.
Timothy said, "I've got two
divers from the town. Tc ::llo will
work with them."
"It's good of you to help." John
Cardnal smiled, sitting beside
him.
"Good for me," Timothy mut
tered. His own pearls, for him
self! TWO dugouts wore drawn up in
the lagoon, a few natives
grouped about them. Timothy
called two of the men for the
smaller dugout, and stepped into
the larger one with Torcllo and
the boy.
"You won't need the map," Ti
mothy said, as Johnny Cardnal
spread it on the bottom.
"If you know, without "
"Just inside the natural break
water. The spray coming over the
reef hits the spot. Down in that
dark blue patch." He gavo orders
to Torello.
A hundred yards wide, the la
goon was shaped like an aspen
leaf, Its stem opening into the
hay. The boats moved toward the
inlet, over the water of a deep
basin.
"Here" Timothy said.
FIVE STAR WEEKLY
will not be responsible fur any
unsolicited manuscripts sub
mitted to them, althoiich all
due precaution will be taken
that they will not he lost.
abW il19'(" 5
The duguuu came close togetu
er, Torellu fastened them end to
end, making a shadow on the sur
face, and let them drift.
Johnny Cardnal leaned over the
Bide.
"Careful. You'll tip us out.''
Timothy warned.
"What can you see?"
"Don't have to see anything!
The divers can see enough when
they get down, if you don't spill
the dugout."
A yellow cloth about his middle,
und a short knife stuck througlt
it, Torello stood ready to dive. He
threw overboard a weighted bas
ket attached to a stout cord. The
basket came to a stop thirty feet
below. Torello dove after it.
Tiny, steady bubbles drifted up.
One of the natives in the second
boat followed Torello.
JOHNNY CARDNAL studied
his map. "I don't think we're
right, Mr. Harden. My map indi
cates " .
"Be quiet, will you? I knew this
lagoon before your father thought
of a map." It wasn't easy to re
member a shell bed that long. But
before he'd touch the boy's map
. . . His memory, Torello's hands,
those were sufficient.
Torello, gasping, clung to the
edge of the dugout. He grinned,
taking in the air, resting. The na
tive from the other boat broke
the surface. It was deep, they
could not stay down long.
Timothy asked, "You found the
place?"
"No luck, senorl" Torello shook
his head. No shells of merit in
habited that spot. "It is the place,
but empty . . ."
"We can use the map, Mr. Har
den," Johnny said. .
Timothy muttered, "It was ex
actly here. I can't be off very
far. They haven't been taken from
the lngoon in my time. Torello.
what did you sec?"
Torello's face was blank. A
clean ship's deck, he suid, was like
the floor of the lagoon. Some
broken shells, thrown back years
ago. Weeds, small fish . . .
"We'll go in toward shore twen
ty yurds."
Hopefully, they puddled away
from the coral reef. Torello and
the native of the other dugout
"Here
Timothy said. The dugouts came-closer together. Torello fastened them end to end, making a shadow on the surface,
and let them drift. Johnny Cardnal leaned over the side. "What can you see?"
went down again and again. Tor
ello bobbed up, grinning, sputter
ing. "No luck, senor!", and dis
appeared. The dugouts moved in
a circle which contracted until a
fifty yard area had been covered.
NOON, and a merciless sun
drove them from the water.
Timothy was silent, saying only
that they would return. He knew
valuable shell had been there, and
-he felt queer about it
In the cool shelter of the con
sulate, Johnny Cardnal asked use
less questions. Torello served
lunch as the boy flung sugges
tions. "Tomorrow," Timothy said.
"We'll take the map and use
it!"
"Look at it now!" Timothy
placed his finger on the cross
marking the stem of the lagoon.
Children's Charming
Folk Tales Reviewed
Drawing by Dorothy Baylcy from "The Man Who Was Going To
Mind The House", included in "Stories To Shorten the
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MIPS RADIATOR! GLIAN
"Stories to Shorten the Road"
by Kffte Tower
(K. P. Dutton & Co.)
MISS Power has gathered to
gether in ono volume 15
folk tales of many lands Sweden,
Norway, Czechoslovakia, Kngland,
and Ireland. They are old, old
stories that children have loved
for generHtions, but most of them
nro told in a charming new way.
The most familiar old favorites
included are "The Man Who Was
Going To Mind the House." "Hans
Who Made the Princess Laugh,"
"Jack the Giant Killer," and "The
Three Golden Hairs of The Old
Man Wevedc."
Perhaps the most delightful
story of the entire 15 is tho one
entitled "Murdoch's liuth," a tale
nf Irish origin.
It concerns Pat, than whom
there was no nicer boy in all Ire
land, "Hut from his cradle he had
learned nothing . , , so when he
fame to years of discretion he
earned his living hy running mes
sage!! for his neighbors. And Pat
could always he trusted to make
the host of a bad bargain and
bring back all the change, for he
was the soul of honesty and good
nature."
So Pat was loved by everyone
and got all the work he could do,
but not much pay. Vie had, there
fore, to carry his shoes in hit
pocket and wear them in town
only, for he had only one pair
and running errands is hard on
hoe leather.
By Joan Rogers
NE night on the way home
wrong turn and found himself at
Murdoch's Kath. There he saw
the fnirics dancing, and forget
ting tho wear and tear on his
brogues, Pat took to dancing with
them. Ho danced and (lanced until
his feet wero sore and he wore
out his shoe leather. The fairies
lent him magic shoes that made
his feet feathers for lightness and
Pat was home in a twinkling. And
along with the shoes, the fairies
gave Tat furze-blossoms for luck
and they turned into gold.
Now Pat told this marvelous
talo to the cobbler of the town,
and the cobbler, a greedy man,
went to dance with the fairies
too. He wore out his shoes and
borrowed a pair. And he took
what he wanted instead of what
he was given ind the jewels he
got turned into pebbles. And he
played a trick on the fairies and
didn't return the marvelous
brogues he had borrowed. So for
his pains and his greed the fairies
let him keep the magic dancing
shoes, nnd they say that, worn
out, the avaricious cobbler still
dances from sunrise to ty'nset
round Murdoch's Kath.
"Stories to Shorten the Road"
is a delightful collection, charm
ingly Illustrated by Dorothy Bay
ley, and should prove fascinating
to children of almost any age.
"We spent the morning there!"
"The tide may have drifted the
shell, Mr. Harden. Or, someone
else must have known about
it ..."
Timothy talked through the af
ternoon, trying to think what was
wrong as he speke. He sipped
whiskey and soda, told of the yel
low pearls of Panama. He'd
worked with a pearl fishery back
in one of the early years, he'd
gone down for shell himself. Pure
white pearls came mostly from
Ceylon, and pink pearls from
around the West Indies. You
didn't often make a fortune, but
wages were good, and it was ex
citing. He was surprised to find
that searching the Tiger Head
lagoon had brought back the old
restlessness . . . Not a lust for
riches, but a new expectation of
freedom. As he talked he thought
of San Francisco. Fog, north
winds, Carmel Laveaga.
"How many colors do you
find?" the boy asked. His glow
ing eyes were fascinated.
"As many as there are in a
rainbow. You find some in clams,
occasionally . . . They're not
proud, the purple and light blue
pearls." He went on until dinner
time, to keep Johnny Cardnal
quiet. For the finest, you went
to Thursday Island, or the west
coast of Australia, or the Persian
Gulf. He'd been there. "Got plenty
without a map," he said.
JOHN CARDNAL'S son finally
went up to bed.
'Tomorrow," Timothy said ev
ery night.
For weeks he had repeated it.
They had swept the lagoon with
the dugouts and the diving boys,
but the shell was not located.
Stubbornly he kept them at it,
refusing to dismiss his dreams.
With luck, he could give comfort,
wealth, to. the girl with olive
throat and eyes like the boy's
who had come to Micai.
Clarkson's steamer was due in
the morning, gleaming white,
puffing smoke, Torello would tnke
the visitor's bags to the beach.
"We've done everything but
drain the lagoon," the boy said.
'If it wasn't for mother, 1
wouldn't care. I've got to take
are of her, but there'll be other
ways." ,
"Your mother wears a black
pearl?"
"She always wears it, I think
she keeps it on when she goes to
sleep." Johnny Cardnal stood up
and stretched. "I'm off in the
morning, Mr. Harden. And I want
to say you've done all you
could "
"Good night," Timothy said. He
hadn't thought of the boy as Car
mel's son. The boy had meant
John Cardnal to him, someone
sent after pearls by a dead
man Timothy didn't want' to re
member. He'd been mistaken. The
girl was alive, and her son wanted
to take care of her. Alone in a
strange country, she must love
the boy,
Torello padded in, clearing the
table, filling Timothy's empty
glass.
"We'll take a last look before
breakfast," Timothy said.
"SI." Torello pointed to the
celling. "He will go?"
"Yes, on the steamer. If we're
early at the lagoon, we might . . ."
He knew it was hopeless to search
the blue floor of weeds and sand,
but it was hard to hive failed.
In the las week hit plant had
shaped. He'd wiped away the
shoddy boarding house, and saw a
great white home on a hill over
looking San Francisco Bay. A
wide drive, a green, rolled stretch
of grass. He saw himself sitting
in the garden in his bamboo chair,
waiting for the carriage. It drove
up, and a girl called to him.
"To look more is not good."
Torello said. "No shell is there."
"I know it, fool. Haven't we
proved it?" .
"The young senor he goes?"
Satisfied at Timothy's nod, Tor
ello grinned, went to the fireplace.
He reached above his head and
pulled out a loose brick. His hand
slid into the opening. A small,
plump sack came from it, which
he gave to Timothy.
THE sack fell to the table. The
cloth broke, spilled a hend
ful of black and gray gems. Sev
eral were large, magnificent spe
cimens. "Why did you do it?" Timothy,
asked sharply. He leaned over the
table, gathering the pearls which
rolled to the edge. "Torcllo, you
damned fool!"
Torello said softly, "In the
dawn of the day he comes; I get
dugout, go down. The senor speal
of pearls before the white boat
comes . . . When boat comes, the
senor not like stranger. I watch
from kitchen. When he smile nnd
talk, you hate him, no? Many
moming before sun up, I work in
lagoon. Night time I open shell." '
"You thought I didn't want to
find these?"
"You think to give to him, sen
or. These yours."
Timothy muttered in relief.
"Pack everything I have, Torello.
Pack anything you want yourself.
We're going north with Clarkson."
"Torello, sencr?"
"I can't get along without a
nurse, fool."
At breakfast, Timothy said,
"I'm going with you. Need a
change." He ate quickly, there
were thing's to do before " the
steamer . came. He'd keep quiet
about the pearls, take them north
himself ... do for Carmel La
veaga what Johnny Cardnal had
planned. He drank his coffee hur
riedly. THE boy looked at him curious
ly. "That's fine," he said.
Pushing back his chair, Timothy
was aware of weariness and of a
new e'ation. The hours on the la
goon hadn't done him any good,
but there'd be no more of that.
Heat drained the vitality of a
man, and he'd soon be away. Tired
or not, he began to feel comfort
ably young again. What if his
flesh was soft here and there?
The tropics did that to anyone,
and he was glad to leave. With
Cardnal in his grave, there was
nothing to hold him in Micai. He'd
rend in his resignation from San
Francisco, and a government clerk
would stop sending checks to the
village.
Timothy's worn suit case,
strapped carefully, was ready for
Clarkson's launch. Johnny Card
nal's bags stood beside it. A large
sealed box of Timothy's belong
ings was carried down the beach
by four natives. In it were curios,
native implements, a collection of
Indian knives, a silver bell from
an old church. ,
Timothy called out as Clarkson
landed: "I'm going north with
you!"
"Old town won't be the same,"
Clarkson laughed, "Be away
long?"
"Forever." He said to Torello,
"Put in what the boat can carry,
and come back for the rest of it.
The box goes last. You, Johnny,
go with Torello."
"I'll see you aboard, Mr. Har
den." The boy climbed into the
motor launch.
Clarkson and Timothy watched
the boat meet the steamer, Torello
and Johnny Cardnal go up the
rope ladder. The sack of pearls
was heavy in Timothy's pocket,
seemed to weigh him down. His
hand sought the bag, fingers clos
ing around the secret of his new
life.
"Your steamer looks fast, Cap
tain. How long do you make 't
to port?"
CLARKSON muttered some
thing vague. The motor
launch was chugging back to tha
beach.
It was hard to look around at
the village. Timothy stared and
turned away. The same town,
homelike and still, undisturbed by
change, impossible, before the vis
itor had come, to think of sailing
with Clarkson, Now his blood
raced, a little, slowly at first,
then surging, beating in hit
throat. The boat scraped the sand,
and Clarkson waved him aboard.
"Ready? Then we're off!"
"Wait," Timothy said. There
was something unnatural, childish,
about his going with Clarkson.
Like a youth reaching out for ad
venture, careless and confident of
new countries and people. Micai
had done that to him, made him
unsure of everything but what he
. knew. The sleepy days, the.
sprawling village, had sapped his
strength. Making up his mind to
go had been more of an effort
than he'd known, and it had left
him tired. Remaining, he would
live again with the illusion, the
image of a girl's face. He was
old, suddenly, remembering that
her tweet face would be as worn
as hit own.
"Go along, Captain. I'm not
coming with you."
"The devil you're not!" Clark
son exclaimed. "You change at
fast as a woman "
"But no faster," Timothy mur
mured. She wouldn't want to see
him, old and fat. He took the sack
of pearls from his pocket. "Give
these to the boy. Tell him they're
for his mother."
"I'll Jo that. You want another
case of White Horse next trip?"
"Same as always, Captain."
Clarkson stepped into the
launch, which immediately backed
away.
"Tell him," Timothy called, "for
his mother . . ." The sound of the
launch blurred his words.
TIMOTHY walked up the curved
rise of the sand, his body erect
and straight. Then his broad
shoulders sagged to thir slight
stoop. He caught himself, brought
them square. A few yards more
and he forgot about it, content
ing himself with getting nearer
to the shadow of the consulate. A
sense of peace and accustom?, I
ness came to Timothy, he was
alone again, safe.
At the top of the beach, he
turned to see the mail steamer
churn its way north, move stead
ily past the white foam of Tiger
Head. A small figure ran to the
rail and dove overboard: Timo'hy
shaded his eyes, pulling down tiie
palm hat. Torello was racing to
ward the surf with long strokes.
He splashed through the shall :iw.
and came panting up the wet bor
der of sand.
The End
My brother kneels, so saith Kabir,
To stone and brass in heathen
wise, But in my brother's voice I hear
My own unanswered agonies,
His God is as his fates assign
His prayer is all the world's
and mine.
Ki-.lii,: s..i ! Kabir.
Is there never a chink in the
world above
Where they listen for words from
below '.'
J,.n Inflow Srmm at th. Kill.
God warms his hands at man's
heart when he prays.
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PAGE SIX