cramped here. We're used to small boats and you are not.”
James took a lungful of smoke. “I'll think about it,” said he.
He had grown visibly brighter.
By supper time that evening, when the wind had taken charge again, he had fallen in with their views. He would go on to Havana in the Dulcinea and they could follow at their leisure. Next morning as they lay under the loom of Turtle Island and within two cable lengths of the yacht, Larry rowed him off.
“You'll find me at the Hotel Mercedes,” said he as he stood up in the boat for a last handshake. “Sure I can't leave you anything more in the way of stores?”
“No, we've lots,” said Sheila.
“Or another man?”
“No, Longley is quite enough.”
“Good-by.”
“Luck.”
They watched him go on board, the sails rising and shivering in the wind, the anchor coming aboard. Then, as the Dulcinea got way on her, Sheila ran up the flag and dipped it.
CHAPTER XXX.
WHAT HAPPENED TO JAMES.
THE first thing James did when he got on board was to get into a hot sea-water bath and lie in it.
The Dulcinea having rounded the land was on a due-west course, the auxiliary whacked up and the sails drawing to a light and variable wind.
He felt like a man escaped from prison. In years to come memory would no doubt recall the adventure robbed of its unpleasant details, showing only the blue of tropic seas, the sunlight on white sands, nights of stars and dawns miraculous in their beauty. Just now he saw nothing but the cabin of the ketch he had left behind, the discomfort, the bad cooking, the cramped deck and the ropes he had been condemned to handle.
Then he had a Martini, served by a steward in speckless white drill, finished dressing and was himself again.
Later in the day, after luncheon, the ordinary siesta which every one takes at sea in the warm latitudes was a failure. Lying on the sofa of the saloon with the novel that refused to put him to sleep beside him on the floor, the figures of Dicky and Sheila appeared before James, mute, unreproachful, and yet
Had he acted right in leaving them, in cutting himself loose from them, in determining not to return with them to that detestable crab-infested cay to take up again the burden of the gold?
Absolutely. He had done more than well by them, he had started them on the way to wealth, they could have the whole treasure for themselves. What more did they want?
And still, somehow or another, James did not feel quite easy in his mind. The something that had made him ask the question was still there.
After dinner he played cribbage with Captain Shortt, Morgan looking after the ship. The possibility of Morgan being a scoundrel or at least the possibility of his having been got at over the gold business did not trouble Mr. Corder much. He had never fully shared Dicky's and Sheila's suspicions about Morgan, still, to-night over the cigars and whisky and cards he put some questions to his skipper.
“You satisfied with Morgan?” asked James.
“Oh, Morgan—I reckon he's all right,” said the other, contemplating the cards. “What makes you ask?”
“I only wanted to know if you thought him a trustable chap.”
“There aren't any flies on Morgan,” said the captain; “a bit slack sometimes, but trustable as Jimmy. Well! no, I couldn't work with a first officer I wouldn't lay my money on as being up and aboveboard. I'd sooner sail with a bishop. Had enough of that when I was Vanderbuilder's skipper. He'd a first that was all O. K. on the outside, and him smuggling cigars. Havre it was they laid their hands on him and we were held a week bailing him out and paying fines, to say nothing of the disgrace. And I got most of the kicking and Vanderbuilder didn't wear dancing pumps when he was on that business.”
“You remember Morgan held you up at Tilbury when we were leaving? What about that?”
“Oh, that. I remember, and how you carpeted him here in this saloon. Well, you wouldn't if you'd known. He ought to have told you, but he's one of the sort that won't talk up for themselves. I only found it out by chance from him—his mother was
