sniffed. There was no land smell in the salty air. He listened. No land sounds came to his ears.
Perhaps the trawler had broken down in the storm, perhaps something had happened to engines or screw. Jack had the natural curiosity of a young fellow in his ’teens and wished that he might go on deck and investigate. He thought of Matt Murphy’s prohibition, of the Chinese crew thirsting for the blood of himself and his comrades.
But, after all, he reassured himself, if he merely poked his head up the companionway nobody would see him. He would be safe enough. And at the recollection of that clean sunshine flooding all the world outside, which he had seen through the porthole, and of the magically calmed sea, he decided he would have to obtain a glimpse of the world above decks, get a lungful of fresher air, no matter what happened.
All this time he had been hurriedly getting into his clothes. A look showed him Bob slept on. Unlocking the cabin door, he stepped soundlessly into the salon.
It was empty of human occupants other than himself. The door of the Temples’ cabin was closed. “Black George’s” cabin door was closed. So, too, was that of Matt Murphy. Jack gave fleeting thought to the question of how that worthy had survived
the stress of the night. Was he still on deck? Or had he retired to rest? If the latter, who was in command?
“Certainly is a queer layout, anyhow,” Jack mused. “Murphy and the doctor the only white men we have seen other than ‘Black George.’ Aren’t there any officers? Are all others aboard Chinamen? Well, here goes.”
And trying the handle of the outer door, and finding it turn soundlessly, he opened it inch by inch. The companionway was empty. A short flight of steps led to the deck. Mounting several, he found his head on a level with the deck and started to raise it cautiously to peer out.
The sound of low-voiced conversation came to his ears, and instinctively he bent down again. Listening a moment, he decided that he had not been seen, for the whispering went on. It came, he believed, from a point not far to the right, on the other side of the wooden bulwark of the companionway.
He held his breath, straining painfully. Whoever they were, they were speaking in English. Yet neither voice was that of Matt Murphy. Who could they be? He had to see.