It was the night after they had swung about and were steaming up the Gulf of Guayaquil under a clear sky that Tankred stepped down to Blake's sultry little cabin and wakened him from a sound sleep.
"It's time you were gettin' your clothes on," he announced.
"Getting my clothes on?" queried Blake through the darkness.
"Yes, you can't tell what we 'll bump into, any time now!"
The wakened sleeper heard the other man moving about in the velvety black gloom.
"What 're you doing there?" was his sharp question as he heard the squeak and slam of a shutter.
"Closin' this dead-light, of course," explained Tankred. A moment later he switched on the electric globe at the bunkhead. "We 're gettin' in pretty close now and we 're goin' with our lights doused!"
He stood for a moment, staring down at the sweat-dewed white body on the bunk, heaving for breath in the closeness of the little cabin. His mind was still touched into mystery by the spirit housed in that uncouth and undulatory flesh. He was still piqued by the vast sense of purpose which Blake carried somewhere deep within his seemingly tepid-willed carcass, like the calcinated pearl at the center of an oyster.
"You 'd better turn out!" he called back as he stepped into the engulfing gloom of the gangway.
Blake rolled out of his berth and dressed without haste or excitement. Already, overhead, he could hear the continuous tramping of feet, with now and then a quiet-noted order from Tankred himself. He could hear other noises along the ship's side, as though a landing-ladder were being bolted and lowered along the rusty plates.