"I won't stand much more of this," he said, grimly. "I'll show them where they get off."
He went to his stateroom and mixed a drink, and after that he mixed another. Presently he returned to the deck, this time with a pair of binoculars. The glasses showed him no more than he had been able to see without them. He fell to pacing, his hands clasped behind him, his glance directed at the canvas-covered deck beneath his feet. Napoleon could have done it no better; Lord Nelson would have been hard put to outdo him.
The afternoon was as fair as the morning, but Bill took no account of its glory. He was wholly absorbed in plumbing the gloomy depths of his mind.
"They think they're putting it over on me," he sneered. "All right. Let 'em see what happens."
Once again he swept the glasses in a circle of the harbor. No scarlet cap. He glanced at his watch.
"Well, I'm through. Time's up."
Slipping the glasses into their case, he strode forward and banged on the door of the sailing master's cabin. A sleepy-eyed officer answered the summons.
"We're going to pull out of here at once," said Bill.
"Everybody aboard, sir?"