“What do you think, then?”
“There’s a much finer one still,” cried the captain, pointing to an albicore, which kept pace exactly with the schooner, as she careened over to the soft breeze and surged through the sparkling water. “No one.”
“Yes, I see him,” said Dutch, aloud. “But you think that Lauré has emissaries on board?”
“May be yes, may be no. Lend me your glass, Mr Pugh. Thanks.”
“Pray be a little more explicit. What do you think, then?”
“I hope they will strike a few of these fellows,” said the captain, returning the glass. “I can get on better without it, thank you. Look here, Pugh,” he said, in a lower tone, “I am all suspicion, and no certainty. One thing is certain—those treasures have an existence; the Cuban’s acts prove that, and he will never let us get the spoil if he can prevent it. The colours of those fish are magnificent,” he said, aloud, as the mulatto limped by. “The ladies ought to come and look at them. Every act of that man,” he continued, “that I saw, proved him to be a fellow of marvellous resource and ingenuity.”
“Yes,” said Dutch, nodding, with his eyes to the binocular.
“And unscrupulous to a degree.”
Dutch nodded again.
“If the Wave was a steamer, instead of a fast three-masted schooner, it’s my impression that we should have gone to the bottom before now.”