wagon, but he was no boozer. He was sittin’ there that night just dead beat, as any man might be after the day’s work he’d done, runnin’ the customs—”
“Luff!” said Jude in a warning voice.
“Oh, close your head! Think I am talkin’ to a customs officer? He don’t care.”
“Not a bit,” said Ratcliffe. “Heave ahead.”
“Well, he was sittin’ with his eyes shut, and he heard these guys colludin’ together. He didn’t get more than half they said, but he got enough to make him want to hear more. Then they quit the bar and went into a back room with their lemon juice and cigarettes. Ten minutes after hell broke loose in that back room, and when Pap and the bartender got the door open there was the chaps, one on the floor shot through the head and the other two near done in. Two of them had set on the guy that was dead; but they hadn’t knocked him out before he began to shoot, and he’d pretty well riddled them with a Colt automatic pistol—”
“Them’s the things!” said Jude. “I’m savin’ up to buy one of them things on my own—twenty-five dollars—”
“Shut your head! Then they must have knocked it out of his hand and used the last shot on him.”
“His brains were all over the floor,” said Jude with relish. “Pap said they looked like white of egg beat up and enough to fill a puddin’ basin.”
“Pap spotted somethin’ else on the floor,” went on Satan, “a piece of paper folded double. He put it in his pocket while the fellers were bein’ lifted to the hospital, where they died that same night. He was on the square all right, takin’ that paper, and I’ll tell you why. Six months before that we’d spotted a wreck comin’ up from Guadaloupe. She’s so placed—as maybe you’ll see yourself one day—that a hundred ships might have passed her without spottin’ her, and bein’ out of trade tracks made her all the safer. These guys had been talkin’ about a wreck before they left the bar for the back room, and he reckoned it was our find they were onto. The piece of paper made him sure of that, and, takin’ it with the talk he’d heard, he reckoned he had got the biggest thing that ever humped itself in these waters. He said there was a hundred thousand dollars aboard her.”
It was a fascinating story, yet it seemed to Ratcliffe that Satan showed little enthusiasm over the business.
“You don’t seem very keen about it,” said he.
“Well,” said Satan, “it seems a bit too big, and that’s the truth. The hooker’s there right enough, but I don’t seem to see all that stuff aboard of her.”
“It’s there right enough,” said Jude.
“Then there’s the getting of it,” went on Satan. “That’s a tough job to tackle. Months of work, no pay, and the chance of bein’ let down at the end of it.”
“Satan’d sooner be grubbin’ round after abalones,” said Jude. “Bone lazy, that’s what he is! I know the stuff’s there, and I’m goin’ to get it if I have to dig it out myself.”
“Well, off with you then,” said the other, “and a good riddance you’d be!” Then to Ratcliffe, “We’ll run you down there some day and you can see for yourself. If you’ve any money to burn, you might like to put it in the spec’. We’d want extra help. Jude’s talkin’ through her hat. We can’t tackle that business alone, even Pap saw that—though he was mighty set on doin’ it single-handed. And that’s where the bother comes in, for the island where she’s lyin’ is Spanish, and the Dagoes would claim what we got if they knew.”
“We’d have to get half a dozen men and give them a share,” said Ratcliffe. “That would make them hold their tongues; but I see an awful lot of difficulties. Suppose you got the stuff, how are you to get rid of it?”
“We’d have to get it down to a Brazil port,” said Satan, “or run it into Caracas. That’s handier. Them Venezuelans are the handiest chaps when it comes to loose dealin’.”
“For the matter of that,” said Ratcliffe, “one could run it straight to England. There are lots of places there where we could get it ashore—but we’ve got to get it first.”
“That’s so,” said Satan. “Look! She’s puttin’ a boat off.” He pointed to the Dryad.
A quarter-boat had been lowered and was pulling away from the yacht. As she drew closer Ratcliffe saw that the man in the sternsheets, steering, was Skelton—Skelton coming either to make trouble or to make friends.
The oars rose up and fell with a crash as the bow oar hooked on to the dingy old Sarah.
“Hulloo!” said Ratcliffe.
“Hulloo!” said Skelton.
“Won’t you come on board?”
“No, thank you.” A sniff from Jude. “I just came over to say that we are starting.”
Ratcliffe saw that he wanted to say a lot, but was tongue-tied before the boat’s crew and the Tylers.
“Better come on board,” said he, “and have a chat in the cabin before you’re off.”
Skelton hesitated a moment, then he came. He gave Satan a nod, utterly ignored Jude, and, followed by Ratcliffe, passed below. Downstairs his manner changed. Standing and refusing a seat, as though fearing to contaminate his lily-white ducks, he began to speak as if addressing the portrait of old man Tyler.
“I can’t believe you absolutely mean to do this,” said he. “I can understand a moment’s temper, but—but—this is a joke carried too far.”
“My dear Skelton,” said the other, “what’s the good? I have the greatest respect for you, but we are dead opposites in temperament and we make each other unhappy. What’s the good of carrying it on? It’s not as if you minded being alone. You like being alone, and I like this old tub and her crew. Well, let’s each carry out our likings. I’m as happy as anything here.”
“I’m not thinking of your happiness, but of the position. You were a guest on my yacht, and you leave me like this—I need not embroider on the bare fact.”
“Do you want me to go back?”
“Not in the least,” said Skelton. “You are a free agent, I hope.”
Ratcliffe’s blood was beginning to rise in temperature. He knew quite well Skelton wanted him to go back, but was too proud to say so, and he knew quite well that Skelton wanted him back, not for any love of him, but simply because the position was irregular and people, if they heard of all this, might talk; also it might seem queer to the yacht’s crew.
“Well, then, if you don’t specially want me back, I’ll stay,” said he.
“Very well,” said Skelton, “as you please. I wash my hands of the affair, and if you come to grief it is your own lookout. I will have the remainder of your baggage forwarded home to you when I reach England.”
“I’ll maybe see you at Havana when this cruise is over,” said Ratcliffe vaguely.
“I doubt it,” said Skelton. “It is quite possible
