Sullen resentment and fury filled the Pelican, from skipper to meekest Kanaka. All aboard had been wildly excited over salvage and treasure; because of this fact, Pontifex had a solidly united crew behind him in whatever he might attempt. Frenchy had not been particularly loved, but his murder showed that the enemy meant business—and in defence of their treasure-trove the crew of the Pelican were only too anxious to fight.
As the afternoon wore on, the fog thickened rather than lessened. At the end of the first dog-watch all hands were called and Frenchy was committed to the deep, with the usual bucket of slush.
Someone observed that there was no chance of laying the ghost of Dennis in this customary fashion; within five minutes the remark had gone through the brig. No one cared particularly how Dennis had perished, but everyone was superstitious in the extreme. Mr. Leman allowed an anxious frown to disturb his flat countenance, and even the skipper, upon hearing the rumour, appeared disturbed.
"Not that I give two hoots for any ghost," he confided to the Missus, "but it makes a bad spirit aboard ship. Nonsense! A ghost doesn't come back, anyway."
"I've heard 'baout that happening," said the Missus gloomily but firmly. "And what folks believe in is apt to come true. You mark my words!"
"Then" and the skipper brightened—"they say that a death aboard ship always brings wind—so we'd better get busy with those Japs before the fog lifts!"
This latter superstition was equally well known aboard, and predictions were that before morning the fog would be gone. Within another hour, however, everybody aboard was too busy to bother further with superstitions.
When darkness began to fall, with no sign of activity from Captain Pontifex, open grumbling began to spread along the deck, It was silenced by the Skipper in person, who appeared and ordered two of the whaleboats lowered.
"Mr. Leman," he commanded quietly, the entire crew listening tensely, "you'll take command of one boat. Lay aboard her six of those oil-bags from the store-room. Muffle the oars. Take a compass and mind your bearings. Two of you men lay aft, here."
Two of the white hands hastened aft and followed the Skipper down the companion way. In five minutes they reappeared, struggling beneath the weight of the pride of the whaling fleet—-the green-striped tea-jar. It was minus the big scarlet geranium plant, and should have been light; but it seemed most unaccountably heavy.