A Shipment of Mute Fate

And now, another tale well calculated to keep you in... suspense. Martin Storm's great story, a shipment of mute fate. I stopped on the war for La Guara, and I looked up the gangplank toward the line of Chansay, standing there quietly at her moorings.

Today was warm under a bright bend as a wail and sun, and the harbor beyond the ship lay drowsy and silent. But all at once, in the midst of those peaceful surrounds, a cold chilled grip me, and I shevered with suction dread, dread of the thing I was about to do.

But too much had happened to turn back now. I'd gone too far to stop. I set the box down on the edge of the fourth, placed it carefully so as to be in plain sight and within gunshot of the captain's bridge.

When I turned and started up the gangplank, I knew what I was going to do. But I couldn't forget that a certain pair of beady eyes were watching every move I made. Eyes that never blinked and never closed, just watched and waited.

And I... Oh! Excuse me, Sir, I didn't... It's Mr. Warner. Well, hello, Mother Willis, and how's the best-looking stewardess on the seven seas? What? I'm fine, Mr. Warner. It's nice seeing you again. Wait a minute. That's a fine greeting after two months.

Well, I have a great deal to do, boy. I don't believe a word of it. Sailing days tomorrow. You simply avoiding me. That's all. Oh, no. Really, I'm not. And on the trip down from New York, you said I was your favorite passenger, remember?

And so you were. Now, if you'll excuse me. Oh, wait a minute. What are you carrying there? Apron. Oh, nothing. Just supplies. Supplies. Let's have a look. No, please. Come on. Hey, it's a cat.