“Ten thousand dollars’ worth of trade and ship,” said Harman, “that’s what we’ve given them for a stinkin’ ketch and a couple o’ hundred weight of sand. Sand an’ pebbles that’s what’s in them boxes. You and your girls! No, you can’t put back, they’d jug us for stealin’ this bum boat. Take your gruel and swaller it! Why, bless your livin’ innocence, the whole of that garlic factory was in it, it’s my belief, from the Port Doctor up, and they’ll be havin’ fireworks to-night to celebrate.”
Billy paused, spat into the sea.
“No,” said he, turning his remarks to the universe in general. “It don’t pay. Runnin’ crooked don’t pay—nohow.”
CHAPTER II.
MANDELBAUM
What would you do were you to find yourself on a stolen sixty-ton ketch off the middle coast of Chile with a crew of Kanakas, less than ten days’ provisions on board, no money to speak of, and a healthy and lively dread of touching at a Chile port?
That was the exact position of Mr. William Harman and his friend, Bud Davis, one bright morning on board the ketch Douro and thirty miles nor’-west of Buenodiaz—about.
The Douro was heading west-nor’-west, the morning was perfect, the Pacific calm, and Billy, seated on the hatch cover, was expressing the opinion that running straight was the best course to adopt in a world where reefs were frequent and sharks abundant.
“No,” said he, “runnin’ crooked don’t pay, nohow. There ain’t enough softies about to make it pay, ain’t enough mugs about, as I’ve told you more’n once. Happy I was on Papaleete beach and then you comes along that night and says, ‘Let’s take Penhill’s ship,’ says you. ‘There she lays, the Araya, sixty-ton schooner, and he drinkin’ himself blind at the club and he can’t touch us,’ says you, ‘for he’s mortal afraid of what I know about him. It’s as safe as cheeses,’ says you, and off we put and out we took her—safe as cheeses, seein’ Penhill couldn’t touch us, weren’t we?”
“Oh, close up,” said Davis.
“I ain’t rubbin’ it in, I’m just tellin’ you. Nobody couldn’t touch us, and bold we put into Buenodiaz, reckonin’ to sell her on the hoof, cargo and all, and she worth ten thousand dollars if she was worth a bean, and then what happens? Pereira offers to buy her, cargo and all, and while you were dickerin’ with him, his daughter hands you that yarn about the Douro havin’ a million dollars in bar gold on board of her, and what does we do?” Mr. Harman’s voice rose a tone or two. “We leaves ten thousand dollars’ worth of ship and cargo and rows over to this old tub, boards her, lifts the hook, cracks on sail and puts out to find nothin’ in them boxes but sand an’ pebbles—half a ton of beach, that’s what them darned turkey bustards had landed on us in swop for a schooner and cargo worth ten thousand dollars if she was piled, let alone ridin’ at her moorings in Buenodiaz harbour.”