PhuePwint/jungle_book · Datasets at Hugging Face

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“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.

For weeks that seemed months to the two prisoners the little steamer
forged on they knew not where. Once the Kincaid stopped to coal, only
immediately to take up the seemingly interminable voyage.

Rokoff had visited Jane Clayton but once since he had locked her in the
tiny cabin. He had come gaunt and hollow-eyed from a long siege of
sea-sickness. The object of his visit was to obtain from her her
personal cheque for a large sum in return for a guarantee of her
personal safety and return to England.

“When you set me down safely in any civilized port, together with my
son and my husband,” she replied, “I will pay you in gold twice the
amount you ask; but until then you shall not have a cent, nor the
promise of a cent under any other conditions.”

“You will give me the cheque I ask,” he replied with a snarl, “or
neither you nor your child nor your husband will ever again set foot
within any port, civilized or otherwise.”

“I would not trust you,” she replied. “What guarantee have I that you
would not take my money and then do as you pleased with me and mine
regardless of your promise?”

“I think you will do as I bid,” he said, turning to leave the cabin.
“Remember that I have your son—if you chance to hear the agonized wail
of a tortured child it may console you to reflect that it is because of
your stubbornness that the baby suffers—and that it is your baby.”

“You would not do it!” cried the girl. “You would not—could not be so
fiendishly cruel!”

“It is not I that am cruel, but you,” he returned, “for you permit a
paltry sum of money to stand between your baby and immunity from
suffering.”

The end of it was that Jane Clayton wrote out a cheque of large
denomination and handed it to Nikolas Rokoff, who left her cabin with a
grin of satisfaction upon his lips.

“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.

For weeks that seemed months to the two prisoners the little steamer

forged on they knew not where. Once the Kincaid stopped to coal, only

immediately to take up the seemingly interminable voyage.

Rokoff had visited Jane Clayton but once since he had locked her in the

tiny cabin. He had come gaunt and hollow-eyed from a long siege of

sea-sickness. The object of his visit was to obtain from her her

personal cheque for a large sum in return for a guarantee of her

personal safety and return to England.

“When you set me down safely in any civilized port, together with my

son and my husband,” she replied, “I will pay you in gold twice the

amount you ask; but until then you shall not have a cent, nor the

promise of a cent under any other conditions.”

“You will give me the cheque I ask,” he replied with a snarl, “or

neither you nor your child nor your husband will ever again set foot

within any port, civilized or otherwise.”

“I would not trust you,” she replied. “What guarantee have I that you

would not take my money and then do as you pleased with me and mine

regardless of your promise?”

“I think you will do as I bid,” he said, turning to leave the cabin.

“Remember that I have your son—if you chance to hear the agonized wail

of a tortured child it may console you to reflect that it is because of

your stubbornness that the baby suffers—and that it is your baby.”

“You would not do it!” cried the girl. “You would not—could not be so

fiendishly cruel!”

“It is not I that am cruel, but you,” he returned, “for you permit a

paltry sum of money to stand between your baby and immunity from

suffering.”

The end of it was that Jane Clayton wrote out a cheque of large

denomination and handed it to Nikolas Rokoff, who left her cabin with a

grin of satisfaction upon his lips.