He rolled out of the berth, washed, dressed hastily, and was just ending his hurried toilet when some one knocked gently, then the door opened. A tall negro, clad in soiled white, appeared in the entrance and addressed Lang with tremendous suavity.
“Good mo’nin’, doctah! De captain, he say yoh breakfus’ served any time dat yoh desires fo’ hit, doctah, suh!”
“All right!” Lang returned, and pushed past the steward into the cabin. No one was there; a white cloth was spread at one end of the table, but he made for the stairway and ran up to the deck.
A blaze of sunshine met him, and a glitter of sky and sea. The weather had cleared; the sun shone gloriously low in the east, and the ocean rippled and sparkled, frothing delicately in long, white-crowned lines. The air itself was warm, sparkling, exhilarating; it went through Lang’s system like a stimulant. No land was in sight anywhere, unless a faint cloud astern meant the coast, and at first he saw no one on the deck.
Then, walking forward, he espied the youthful gangster, in a white jersey and cloth cap, a cigarette butt in his mouth, slouching over the rail. He glanced aside at the doctor, nodded furtively, and seemed to sidle off. Close to the bow Lang now perceived a couple of negro deck hands busied over something, and two men on the bridge.
He found Carroll unexpectedly at his side, but it was no longer the dandy yachtsman of the day before. Carroll now wore a faded greenish sweater, “pin-check” trousers and soiled tennis shoes, but he greeted the physician with the same extreme amiability.
“Well, are you ready to put me ashore?” Lang demanded, with an implacable air.
“Oh, come on, now, doctor!” Carroll pleaded. “Don’t go back to that. Ain’t you comfortable here? You wouldn’t leave a sick man on our hands like that? He’s desperate sick—you said it yourself.”
“This is no yacht. Why did you say it was?” Lang pursued.
“Ain’t it? Say, Floyd, he says the Cavite ain’t a yacht,” said Carroll, addressing the spectacled member of the crew who just then sauntered up.