Davis went ashore about eleven o’clock, and did not return till two in the afternoon. When he came back he was a different man. He seemed younger and brighter, and even better dressed, though he had not changed his clothes. Harman, watching him row up to the ship, noticed the difference in him even before he came on board.
He swept him down to the cabin, and before letting him speak, poured out drinks.
“I see it in your mug,” said Harman. “Here, swaller that before handin’ out the news. Cock yourself on the bunk side. Well, what’s the odds now?”
“Twenty to one on,” said Davis, “or a hundred—it’s all the same. It’s as good as done. Bo, we got it.”
“Don’t say!” said Billy.
“Got it, saddle and bridle an’ pedigree and all. She’s given it all in and to-night’s the night.”
“Give us the yarn,” said the other.
“There’s nothing to it; simple as shop-lifting. The stuff will be down at the coast here about dark; it will be taken off soon as it arrives and shipped on board the Douro. She’s lying over there, and I’ll point her out to you when we go up. Then, when the stuff is aboard, she’ll put out, but not till sun up. They don’t like navigating those outlying reefs in the dark, moon or no.”
“Yes,” said Harman.
“Well,” said Davis, “our little game is to wait till the stuff is aboard, row off, take the Douro, and push out with her. You and me and eight Kanakas ought to do it, there’s no guardship, and the fellows on the Douro won’t put up much of a fight. You see, they’re not on the fighting lay; it’s the steal softly business with them, and I reckon they’ll cave at the first shout.”