"But Hawk was a pal of mine," protested Ferret, looking around the group. "He wouldn't squawk. Anyway, I only told him—"
"We talked that over before," said Major. "We'll drop it now. I'm thinking of tomorrow. I'll get you a time-table, Ferret, as soon as we reach New York. The first train out of the big town will be the best. We want you to drop in on Judge ahead of the rest of us."
"All right," returned Ferret, in an annoyed tone. "Leave it to me, Major."
"I'll leave it to you!" Major spoke emphatically. "But remember, you're one in five. The interests of the gang come first. You may have some idea of your own. Get it out of your head — until afterward. There'll be plenty of time, later on. We're all going to be independent, after a while."
"Remember it," echoed Deacon, staring solemnly at Ferret.
Butcher chimed in with a warning growl.
That ended the discussion. Butcher, chewing the end of a Havana cigar, called for the steward, and another bottle was brought to the table. Afterward came dinner; then an ocean evening that ended with the men tottering singly to their cabins.
Faces were weary and solemn when the men gathered in the morning, as the Vesta nosed her way through the outer harbor. Standing by the rail, the four watched the outgoing liners, and stared toward the Staten Island shore.
Butcher seemed half groggy and less jocular than usual. Deacon was quiet and silent; but that was not unusual. Major said very little, but bore himself with the poise of a veteran. Ferret was the quietest of all. Yet his glance was furtive, and his manner restless.
With various delays in order, it was late in the afternoon when the Vesta had finally docked, and the four men had passed the customs officials. Ashore, the departing passengers shook hands with the stern-faced captain of the yacht. The Vesta was due to clear for another port within a few days. Deacon entered a taxicab alone. Butcher drove off in another. Major and Ferret remained, the latter grinning as he looked along the avenue that bordered the water front.