“Not a soul,” laughed Moran. “Certainly, you’re all right.”
“Rotten bad booze, just the same,” asserted Chet. “Wouldn’t I like to drive a quart of that stuff into Dick Merriwell! He is a model chap, he is. He never drinks. If I had him where I wanted him I’d make him drink and I’d make him smoke. Have a cigarette?”
Fumblingly Chester produced a package of cigarettes, which he offered to his companions, none of whom accepted.
“All right,” he said; “I will smoke alone. Have cigars on me? Johnnie, give these gentlemen cigars.”
Cigars[Cigars] were provided, and all began to smoke.
“Wish I had Merriwell where I could get my hands on him to-night,” growled Chet, thumping the table. “Captain Long’s ashore, and I can run the old yacht myself. I’d like to get Merriwell onto her. I’d carry him out to sea, and I’d fill him to the muzzle.”
“When does Long return?” asked Moran.
“He won’t be back for two days. Gone to New York on business. Old lady sent him. Sailors will stand by me. They’ll do anything I want them to do—all but that dago, Tony. He can’t be trusted. Can’t trust a dago, anyhow. Say, you fellers! will you stand by me? I’ll pay. I can get the coin. Will you help me shanghai this Merriwell? I will fix it up somehow; I will get him in the trap. We’ll run him off.”
“Why, of course,” said one of the sailors. “You can count on this crowd for anything.”
“Then I’ll do it!” vowed Chet, again striking the table. “You bet your life! I know how. I’ll fake up a letter from my sister. I’ll make appointment for him, and we’ll jump on him. Then we’ll sack him onto the yacht and give him a little cruise. That’s the stuff! He’ll smoke cigarettes! He’ll drink booze before I am through with him!”