"Oh, I'm to allow him one-third of the stock. Our consul at Singapore is already getting us the concession, and Jerry has letters from the Sultan of Tringanu to all the native chiefs."
"What're they like, dad?" Bob sat up. "The letters, I mean."
"They're written in Arabic," laughed his father. "There are a good many Arabs out in that part of the world, and I suppose Arabic is the usual written language; or rather, the Malays use the Arabic characters. They're all Mohammedans, anyway."
"Can't we take a squint at those diving outfits?" Mart looked out at the sparkling waters of the bay, and sighed. "Oh, I'd give 'most anything to go down and really get underneath the ocean! Where are the outfits, Cap'n?"
"Boxed up in the hold, Judson. There's no chance of our using them till after we get to Tringanu. Swanson knows a good deal about diving, and Jerry Smith promised to pick up a couple of men who were used to it, so we'll be all right there."
"Oh!" Mart suddenly sat up and squared around in his seat. "Am I under Swanson's orders, Cap'n?"
"Nominally, yes, as a member of the crew. But in actual fact, no. Why?"
The boy's face was troubled, and he hesitated an instant.
"Nothing much," he said at last, his gray eyes suddenly hard and cold. "Only, I had an argument with Swanson Friday, and by somethin' he said yesterday I wondered if I was under him."
"I guess not!" cried Bob indignantly. "You're an officer, and you're under no one but the captain—who is dad."