Loyola University Maryland - Evergreen / Green and Gray Yearbook (Baltimore, MD)

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12 THE LOYOLA ANNUAL Of what happened after that I remember but little, but I have visions of a fierce struggle taking place, figures darting hither and thither, unearthly groans and deafening shots and streaks of fire that rent the night. When found later by the crew of the “Monarch” I was the lone survivor. My companions lay beside their empty revol- vers, and close to them were four figures crouched in death. The ghastly and terrible look upon their faces showed us that death to them had been an unwelcome enemy. We found them to be ordinary mortals, but shorter in stature, dressed in tight- fitting black oilskin garments. In each one’s hand was a small weapon like a sprinkler in which was carried a small amount of the deadliest poison, a drop of which if it fell on the bare skin of a human being would kill him instantly. After my rescue, and while the crew were inspecting the deck, one of the sailors saw a ray of light coming up from a crack in the hatchway. We forced it open and descended into a room where we stood dumbfounded. It was a magnificent drawing-room, electric lights sparkled from golden chandeliers and glittered upon the diamond-studded decorations of the room. Large, unknown instruments and charts were upon polished desks, and volumes of books, uniformly bound, were standing in magnificent bookcases. The furnishings were never surpassed in the apartments of any palace, and the many strange inventions showed us the inventive genius of the own- ers. Four other rooms, fitted up just as magnificently, com- prised the lower parts of the derelict, while below noiseless en- gines, operated by vapor, were the means of propelling the craft. Such were the secrets of the derelict, that mysterious craft which for many long years had appeared on different waters of the globe ; that had been the subject of many weird, incred- ible tales and the home of the phantoms of the sea. But the

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THE LOYOLA ANNUAL 11 now short-cabled. The suspense was terrible. In a cramped position we lay, behind the few boxes in a corner, hearing the gusts whistling by the mast like a demon singing his death song. The waves beat against the sides of the slime-covered planks with a hollow, muffled roar, and the screech of the night heron hovering over the craft of death lent weirdness to the scene. The storm passed ; the friendly moon, though light- ing the still raging waters with its silvery beams seemed far- ther away than usual; even the twinkling stars appeared to sink and recede deeper into the sky, as though afraid to look upon what was about to happen. Scarcely had we chosen our places on the dismal ship when we heard an indescribable noise, muffled and guarded like the tones of an anarchist plan- ning assassination. My companions trembled beside me and I dared not speak a word. The cool night breeze bore to our ears an unearthly screech, and on hearing it we pushed our- selves farther into the corner. As we chanced to look toward the sky, out of the arc of the heavens, out of the “crow ' s nest” swaying violently in the angry blasts of air, down the creaking mast, stole four figures. I heard the click of my com- rades ' revolvers and I instantly cocked my trigger and waited. Four mysterious figures of short stature, with bent backs, noiselessly cut the cable and then searched the deck. Under the eaves of the boat’s side they went, peering here and there with quick, darting glances. Closer and closer they came. I saw the gleam of short instruments in their hands and I saw the fiendish stare in their coal-black eyes and heard, too, the short, hissing sound that they regularly emitted. One came to a stop and glared directly at me, like a mon- strous evil-eyed wolf, then he took one step closer, there was a gleam in a ray of moonlight, a swish of his arm and a shot rang out on the silence of the night.

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THE LOYOLA ANNUAL 13 history of the pirates, (for pirates they were), that dwelt on it, the ships that they plundered and the innocent lives that were lost will never be known save in that world where all secrets are revealed and where life flows along as happily and as joy- ously as a brooklet to the sea. Joseph J. Quinn, H. S. 12 . Ahoy to the brine-covered brig, my boys ! Ahoy to our ocean bride, Where the billow plays in the golden rays That rest on the heaving tide. We’re off to the bright evening skies, my boys! We’re off to the western waves; Think not of the dirge of the restless surge, That rolls upon sailors’ graves. We’ll race with the frolicsome moon, my boys! And list to the screeching gales. We’ll skip o’er the hue of the ocean blue A-spinning our seaman tales. Oh, spurn all these rollicking ripples, boys, That crisp on the silver sands ; And bid an adieu to good friends and true ; We’re off to the western lands. W. F. C.