"Head out," he whispered. "There's a launch ahead."
Mascola's eyes sought to pierce the fog where the dim outline of a motor-boat loomed dark across their course. Then he swung the Fuor d'Italia about and skirting the point rowed doggedly away from the darkened stranger.
The Italian's ugly temper was not bettered by the physical exercise. There was no need to row the launch as far as this. If Bandrist was going with him, he must learn he was to be only a passenger. The Fuor d'Italia did not belong to Rock and the islander. She was his own property. He would run her where he pleased and as he pleased. As he labored, he formulated his plans.
He would head straight for the Mexican line, keeping well out to escape the patrol off San Juan. Daybreak would put him in the little lagoon beyond
Encinitas. There he would be among friends. He reflected suddenly that he had but little money. American gold in Lower California would buy much. Without it, even his friends would give him but scant comfort. Bandrist, he remembered, never trusted his money to banks, but paid his bills in yellow gold which he carried in the coin belt about his waist.
The observation gave Mascola comfort. Bandrist had enough for them both. He would see that he received his share.
He ceased rowing.
"Far enough," he muttered.
"No."
Bandrist's reply was sharp and decisive.