Dent Lester - Trouble On Parade

He was requesting — as Doc Savage arrived on the scene — “Do that one again, Disappointed! That's good stuff!”

Disappointed Smith proceeded to dive gracefully, sink to some depth, turn, streak upward, and — Doc could hardly believe his eyes! — turn a neat somersault while almost completely out of the water.

“How was that, buddy?” Disappointed Smith asked the photographer.

“Great stuff! Better than Weismuller!” said the young man with the camera.

“Now I'll give you my imitation of a passionate whale,” said Disappointed Smith.

“Damn it, I'm getting short of film,” said the newsreel man. “If the imitation isn't too long …

… "Here! Here you! Sheer off! Whatcha think you're doin'? Gettin' on a subway train?”

This last was directed at Doc Savage who had sent his boat nosing into the scene of action.

“Get outa camera range!” the young man added, bellowing.

Disappointed Smith — treading water gracefully — gazed at Doc Savage. And Doc had the impression that there was a considerable emotion behind the redwhiskers. He couldn't tell what it was.

Presently Disappointed Smith delivered himself of a quotation. He quoted:

“Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,

Unhousell'd, disappointed, unaneled,

No reckoning made, but sent to my account,

With all my imperfections on my head.”

Doc Savage nodded approvingly and remarked, “From Shakespeare.”

“Ah,” said Disappointed Smith. “A scholar and a gentleman, I see.”

The newsreel man was jumping about excitedly, thrusting his head inside his plane and demanding of someone in there, “Cripes! Haven't you got another blank record for that recorder? Just one more record? Did you hear what he just said? That's good!”

A weary voice inside the plane replied there were no more blanks and added that the owner was seasick and wished to know when in-the-hell they were leaving.

Presently the cameraman ceased his leaping about, falling to ogling Doc Savage. He had recognized Doc. He gasped “Holy Smoke! It's Doc Savage!” and clamped his camera to his eye.

Disappointed Smith grinned at Doc.

“You come to get my autograph?” he asked.

- — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Doc Savage shut off the express cruiser's large engines — which were idling — and leaned on the rail to inspect Smith.

He remarked, “You seem to be in a more talkative frame-of-mind than when the plane found you.”

“I remember seeing you on the passenger plane,” said Disappointed Smith. “You were looking out of the 3 rdwindow from the front.”

“True.”

“You,” said Disappointed Smith, “were the guy they asked if I were crazy. I could hear them.”

“Also true.”

“I also heard your answer,” continued Smith, “which seemed somewhat evasive — neither assuring them I was sane-or-insane nor giving a definite opinion. It was a typical doctor's answer. Nothing that could be pinned on you later.”

“Right.”

“I,” said Disappointed Smith, “seem to be doing all the talking.”

“True again.”

The swimmer expanded his chest and bristled his whiskers.

“I feel like talking,” he said. “This afternoon has mellowed me because I like publicity. And I'm getting plenty of it. They're going to put me in the newsreels. Later. I imagine, some movie company will want to make me a star. Clark Gable and Johnny Weismuller had better watch out for their laurels!”

“I doubt it,” Doc said.

“Why?” asked Smith indignantly.

“Those whiskers,” Doc assured him, “would frighten the patrons out of the theaters.”

“You're crazy! I know what effect these whiskers have on the ladies. They swoon when they see 'em. I'll make Sinatra ashamed of himself!”

Doc Savage made no comment on this but began removing his shirt, trousers, and shoes.

Gazing at him in alarm, Disappointed Smith demanded, “What are you undressing for? What are you going to do?”

“I thought I would try the swimming, too,” Doc said. “How is the water?”

“You'd better not. There's sharks!” Smith said hastily.

“The sharks aren't bothering you.”

“Only because they know me and they're afraid to mess around with me.”

“Then you can protect me.”

“Listen, I'll feed you to them!” said Disappointed Smith, sounding rather grim as if he meant this.

Doc gave a quotation himself.

“'The best enjoyment is half disappointment to what we intend or would have in this World,'“ he said.

Disappointed Smith scowled, “Hey, you're stealing my stuff! … Wait, I get it. You're a publicity hog yourself. And you're trying to horn in!”

Doc Savage arranged a loop of rope over the side of the express cruiser so that he could climb back aboard without too much effort. Then he poised at the rail and dived into the remarkably clear and not-too-cold water. He came to the surface facing — and no more than 2 feet from — Disappointed Smith.

“Here!” said Disappointed Smith. “I don't like this!”

Doc grasped a handful of red whiskers. They were real and made an excellent hand-grip.

He and Disappointed Smith proceeded to have a fight.

- — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Doc Savage had taken the precaution of filling his lungs with air. That proved fortunate because his opponent immediately adopted submarine tactics: dragging them both beneath the surface.

For the first minute (and 1 minute underwater is probably one of the longest minutes there is), Disappointed Smith did nothing, evidently being full of confidence in his own lasting ability. They rested motionless — almost — in the glass-clear depths, able to see each other perfectly and exchanging thoughtful looks. 10 seconds more passed … then 20 … 30 …

Disappointed Smith suddenly endeavored to insert a thumb in Doc's left eye but was discouraged when Doc gave the remarkable whiskers a hard yanking! The beard seemed — underwater — a brilliant, woodpecker-head red.

As they neared the 2-minute mark under the surface, composure began to leave Smith. He made a snaky movement with his legs, attempting to clamp a wrestler's "scissor hold" around Doc's chest with the idea of squeezing the supply of air out of the bronze man's chest. Doc, however, managed to grasp one of Smith's toes. It was a large toe — an excellent handhold.

Steel-like cables of hardened bronze forearm musclesgave it a twisting! A large bubble of air escaped Smith's lips, probably containing a shout of discomfort.

Maintaining a firm hold on Smith's chin foliage, Doc thrust the heel of his hand under Smith's nose … shoved with that hand … and pulled with the other, this forcing Smith's mouth agape. Presently there was another bubble — followed by several more — and Smith began to fight the fight of a drowning man, inflicting some damage of a minor nature. Apparently he had waited too long to stage the flurry because his fighting changed to frantic grasping and eventually to the weakness of a suffocated man.

Doc swam to the surface with him. Doc was rather concerned about his own need for air.

Because of the clarity of the sea, the men in the newsreel plane, the occupants of the Nova Scotia dinghies, and 3 men on the yawl had been able to watch the fracas.

The spectators — inoculated by the excitement that invariably seems contagious around a fight — were having some little difficulties of their own. The newsreel cameraman — dancing in excitement! — had unwittingly stepped on the fabric-covered part of the seaplane wing. Both of legs had gone through, causing him to become wedged like a cork in a bottle. The pilot of the plane — quite angry — was climbing from the cockpit waving a fire extinguisher which he asserted he intended employing to beat out the cameraman's brains. The yawl helmsman — seeking to bring his craft closer — unfortunately jibed, knocking one of his passengers overboard. A moment later, he also ran down one of the Nova Scotia clinks, capsizing the smaller craft. Another dinghy occupant caught a crab with his oars and fell overboard himself.