But Bobby was far from feeling as much confidence as he professed to have. So far they had little to go on save guesswork and the few chance words of the old Eskimo, which might have been little more than a product of his imagination. It might be as Mouser said, that the ship was only going North on a trading cruise, and the old Eskimo, homesick for his own country, had taken passage because it happened to be the first vessel that he could get passage on. But if that were the case, why should the old Eskimo look so suspicious when they mentioned treasure to him, and refuse to say a word on the subject? And what had he and Captain Garish talked about so earnestly that day at the circus?
These and many other questions and surmises sufficed to keep him on the anxious seat. And in addition to this, was the thought of those at home who would have not the slightest knowledge of what had happened to their boys and must have given them up for lost by this time.
They had already learned that the schooner was not equipped with wireless and that they were sailing out of the beaten track of ocean-going vessels. Occasionally a sail was sighted, but so far away that signaling was practically out of the question.
“Guess the captain doesn’t want to signal anyway,” said Fred moodily. “He is short of hands, you know, and we’ll fit in very nicely.”
“And maybe without pay,” added Mouser.
All these things combined to make the boys unhappy, and in spite of many amusing and exciting happenings on board ship, they could not be said to enjoy the cruise much.
The weather was uniformly good, and the boys were on deck most of the time. They struck up an acquaintance with various members of the crew, and many were the yarns they listened to in the off watches while the men sat about on hatch covers and coils of rope, mending or scrubbing their clothes, or perhaps just idly drawing at blackened old pipes. They had a good deal of fun, too, with Mose, the black mess boy, who was always in good spirits and who never grew seasick, no matter how rough the ocean became.
“Ah’s a salty niggah, white boys, an’ dey ain’t no sea ebber rolled dat could make me sick,” he used to boast. “De on’y thing whut it does to me is to give me an appetite. Yessuh, Ah nebber eats quite so heartily as when de old ship is standin’ on her beam ends an’ doin’ her best to dive down to Davy Jones’ locker. Mos’ times Ah kin do justice to mah meals, but it’s den dat Ah really comes out strong an’ packs away de victuals.”
He would come from the galley with a load of dishes on each arm, balancing himself on the heaving deck with all the skill and precision of a tightrope walker, and for a long time the boys never saw him meet with an accident.
But one day there was a heavy cross swell running. The ship rolled and pitched and apparently did everything except actually roll over. By this time the boys had gotten their sea legs, however, and they were seated about the table in the cabin, waiting for breakfast. A steep flight of steps led down to it from the deck, and in due course of time the boys saw the negro’s ungainly flat feet start down the ladder. On one arm he carried a big dish of oatmeal and on the other a pile of plates. This was no more than his usual load, with which he had made the descent many times before without mishap. But this morning luck was against him. He had hardly gotten down three steps, when the ship gave an unusually heavy roll, which suddenly changed to a pitch as the bows slanted steeply downward.