"Joked 'im, the mate did; chaffed 'im abaht some woman. Bli' me! Frenchy was hup and at 'im like this." And the Cockney held the two first fingers of his right hand forked and aloft. "Tried to jerk at 'is knife, 'e did, but Frenchy hup an' took if first—ugh! 'Orrible it was. And now the Capting, 'e'll 'ang Frenchy."
Somebody guffawed in the darkness.
"Hang Frenchy? Not him! Frenchy an' the Skipper have sailed together for years, they tell me. Hey, mates?"
"You bet," came a response. "Skipper don' dast hang him, I guess."
To Dennis it was rankly incredible; but it was true. In the morning Manuel Mendez, who would smile no more his white-toothed hungry smile, was sent overside with a chunk of coal sewed at his feet; and as the body was committed to the deep, Frenchy leaped to the rail and sent a bucket of slush over the canvas. An old whaling custom, this, to keep the dead man's ghost from following the ship. But Frenchy remained untouched for his crime. If there were any inquiry or punishment, Dennis never heard of it. The ship's routine pursued its usual course, Ericksen being advanced to the position of second mate, Leman to that of first mate.
One man aboard, however, did not forget the happening; and this was Corny, the compatriot of the murdered mate. More than once, Dennis saw Corny's eyes follow Frenchy about the deck with a black, murderous look.
These things, however, swiftly were forgotten in the rumoured vicinity of the wreck; and since everyone aboard either knew, or had guessed, the import of this strange cruise, the ship hummed like a beehive with speculation and gossip. At noon, with the remarkable keenness which distinguishes whaling skippers, Captain Pontifex completed his observations and then laid out a new course, stating that it would bring them under the lee of the island at four bells in the morning watch, at which time the brigantine was to be hove to and await daylight.
Tom Dennis was the only one aboard, except Captain Pontifex and the Missus who did not sleep by watches. At dinner that night the skipper broached a bottle of wine, and sent forward a tot of grog for all hands; suppressed excitement ruled the ship, even the gentle Kanakas breaking into wild native songs until suppressed by the Skipper's order. After an evening of much talk, mainly about the various methods of raising sunken treasure, Dennis turned in.
With the morning came disenchantment. Dennis had dreamed of gold-mad sailors, of wild haste, of everything forgotten save the proximity of sudden riches. But once on deck he found things very different. The Pelican was standing across the end of a barren rocky island; just beyond and ahead of her was a long scooped-out depression in the rocky shore, and in the centre of this depression lay the wreck of the Simpson. The seamen were attending strictly to their positions and duties; there was no hilarious ring of voices, and everything was about as romantic as a visit to a coaling-station.
But the John Simpson was there—no doubt about it!