The lazarette was full of food, all sorts of canned things; then, hearing Keller’s voice above, up they came demure as cats out of a dairy to find the long man waving his arms like a windmill. His goatee beard was sticking out like a brush and his eyes flaming.
“Dope!” cried Keller. “Boys, our fortunes is made. Canton opium, blue label tins and worth two thousand dollars if it’s worth a jitney. Kim along down and howk them out.” He led the way on to the junk’s deck and below to the awful interior smelling of opium, joss sticks, stale fish and shark oil; there on the floor in the dismal twilight lay the tins arranged by Keller in a heap.
“I reckon,” said Keller, “the schooner either went for the chows or the chows for the schooner. Maybe they all killed each other, or maybe the chaps that were left took fright seein’ a cruiser or fancyin’ one—reckon that was the way, for there ain’t no boats left, but the dinghy. Well, it’s all a durn sea mystery, and I’ve seen queerer—but there’s the dope, come along and hoist it.”
They brought the tins up and over to the schooner’s deck, got a tarpaulin and tied them up in it, and then, and not till then, took stock of their position. The drift of the current had left the island a good way to the south, but there it lay green, lovely and inviting, the glassy swell pearling round the coral.
Keller, turning from the opium tins to this picture, gazed for a moment, his jaws working in contemplation. Then he turned to the others.
“Boys,” said Keller, “it’s either go back or stick. I’m for sticking, if there’s water and grub enough on board. You see, if we take this dope back ashore, we won’t never be able to realise on it; any ship takin’ us off will say, ‘What’s in that bundle?’ and there won’t be no use sayin’ it’s bibles. Whereas if we can make a port in this hooker we can claim salvage, and leavin’ that alone we can ten to one get rid of the dope.”
“There’s grub enough,” said Davis, “to judge by the lazarette, and there’s pretty sure to be enough water—two minutes will tell, but first, let’s get those stiffs overboard. No use putting sinkers to them, the sharks will finish them before they’ve sunk a fathom.”
Twenty minutes later the decision was come to and the boat got on board.
They had found water and food enough for months, it only wanted a breeze to break the ships apart, and Keller reckoned that the three of them would be able to manage the schooner. Davis was a fair navigator, the charts and compass had not been damaged or removed, and with Matadore for a point of departure they ought to be able to reach the Fijis. So it was settled.
Harman, leaning on the rail when the decision was come to, fancied that he could hear a whisper from the beach of the far-away island, the whisper of the swell breaking on the coral where the wives of Keller were no doubt congregated, abandoned—chucked away for the prospect of a fistful of dollars.