He felt intensely worried, harassed, working in the dark. At a loss what to do, he wandered the whole length of the long curving water front. There were all sorts of vessels, and a tremendous rush and noise. A big freighter from Australia was unloading; the squat, sullen Indian roustabouts sweated and toiled. The mail boat he had come on was still in the harbor, and he looked at her, wondering when he would take that northward road again.
The end of the harbor shaded off into shacks, fishing boats, rotten little wharves, and he turned back again. He was walking slowly when his eye was caught by a gasoline cruiser moored beside a pier. He thought he had seen it before, but it had been deserted then, and now seemed to be making ready to go somewhere.
Lang knew a little of motor boats, and once had nearly bought one. This craft must have been an elaborate and expensive cruiser at one time, but was growing old and unkempt and paintless, as if she had fallen on evil ways. She was named the Chita, must have been some forty feet long, slim and shapely in lines, with a comfortable cabin and a glassed pilot house, and it occurred to Lang that she would be a most comfortable vessel for the expedition south, provided her engines were in good order.
A man was working over them then, stooping over some adjustment. A second man was stowing away boxes and small crates which a couple of stevedores were unloading from a truck. He too was stooping, but he straightened up and Lang met his eyes full.
It was rather intuition than recognition. The man had a full inch of stubby black beard all over his chin and jaws; he wore a green jersey, rough trousers and boots, and he looked every inch a Chilean sailor. He met Lang’s eye stolidly; but some subconscious shock startled a cry from Lang’s lips.
“What—Carroll?” he almost shouted.
The man at the engine looked up quickly—instantly bowed his head again; but not before Lang had had a glimpse of a thin, sullen young face that he knew for certain. Louie’s face was deeply browned and his rather light hair dyed black, but he was a type hard to disguise. Lang looked back at the deck hand, positive now.
“I’ve caught up with you, Carroll,” he said. “What are you doing here? Where’s Morrison?”
He was astonished at his own coolness, for this was the crisis; the collision that he had anticipated.
The man continued to stare unblinkingly.