Ratcliffe laughed.
“You see,” went on Jude, “you don’t pick up honest parties round these parts, not by the bushel. You might rake Havana with a fine-tooth comb lookin’ for fellers that wouldn’t do you, but you wouldn’t find none. It’s the same all round the gulf, from N’Orleans to Campêche; you can’t stick your nose in anywhere without being stung—if you’re a softy.”
“So he liked me because he thought I was straight. What did you like me for, Jude?”
“Lord! if you don’t fancy yourself! Who told you I liked you?”
“You did last night. You said you and Satan took to me right off.”
“Oh, did I? Well, maybe it was them pajamas—Hullo!” The shrill notes of a bo’sn’s whistle came over the water. She sprang to her feet.
Satan’s form appeared at the rail of the Sarah. He was making movements with his arms as though signaling, and Jude flung up an arm in answer.
Then, shading her eyes, she looked seaward.
“What’s up?” asked Ratcliffe.
“Come on!” said Jude.