The insistence that the visitor should prove his ability to support his character as artist was all proof of fear and doubt. Bettington was now suffering for Gibbs's unsavory past.
"This is all a mistake," he said, addressing himself to Sam. "You think I'm Jonathan Gibbs."
"I know damn' well you're not," said Sam, without animus.
The thing was inexplicable. All the plausible reasons why he might be abducted in the other's stead were swept away. They knew him for himself, and knowing it, they were carrying him off, bound with ropes, to the open sea.
Waiting for the Boss
There was seemingly no sort of personal grudge in this high-handed matter. The three men looked at him without vengeful emotions. They were carrying out orders.
Doubtless some one in command had given them orders and they had obeyed. Even the man from whose fist Bettington was even now suffering, regarded without malice his victim.
"Didn't know but you was armed," he explained later.
"Why should I be armed?" Bettington demanded.
"Wouldn't be the first time," said Sam. "Listen, bo, we've got orders not to say a thing to you till the boss sees you. It won't do you no good asking why we did it, or who we are. We had to get you alive and unharmed and we did the best we knew how."
The three paid no more attention to him, except to put a blanket under his head and shoulders. It was dark when the lights of Bar Harbor came in sight. He was carried up the gangway, across a deck and then placed in a small cabin lighted with a single porthole.
Sam untied the knots and watched the victim stretch his stiff and cramped limbs.
"Just a word of warning," Sam remarked. "You can't get out of that porthole and you can't get out of this cabin. If you did, it wouldn't help you. If you're wise you'll wait till the boss sends for you."
Sam turned the key in the door and left him prisoner. There was no way of escape. As he examined his dungeon he heard the throbbing of machinery. From the porthole he could see the boat was moving.
Bettington knew Bar Harbor well and saw the vessel was settling her course to the south. He pulled off the heavy sea boots of Jonathan Gibbs and flung himself on the berth.
In many adventures Bettington had learned that fretting and fuming were handicaps that men in danger should not take upon themselves.
Presently he fell asleep and was awakened by Sam. Sam had entered with caution, half expecting to be met by violence.
"You ain't worrying," said Sam, grinning. "They tell me you always had your nerve with you. You won't be able to see the boss to-night." Sam sat on the foot of the berth and waxed confidential. "He's hitting the pipe and it's as much as a man's life is worth to go in now. I haven't no authority to let you out till he gives the word, so I'll bring you a bite to eat here."
Bound for New York
Sam waddled out. Bettington was still puzzled by his apparent friendliness. As a physical specimen of humanity Sam did not awaken confidence.
On his broad, flat face were written lust and brute courage. He would be a bad man to cross. His weakness, Bettington thought, would be women and food. He had the small, greedy eye of the glutton and the mouth of a sensualist.
But why should he regard Howard Bettington, painter of seascapes and man of integrity, with such an air of comradeship?
"Where are we bound for?" he asked of Sam, when a tray of food was brought in.
