“It’ll have to lay there.”
“What’s the name of Cleary’s boat?” asked Ratcliffe as he watched the approaching ketch.
“The Natchez,” said Satan, “an old cod boat, built at Marthas Vineyard. Lord! ain’t they crackin’ on! Cleary’s in a hurry. There’s no denyin’ that.”
He whistled contentedly as he leaned on the rail, and Ratcliffe, watching his hatchet-sharp profile, wondered what was coming next. Of one thing he was beginning to feel certain,—Cleary, Carquinez, Sellers, and anything else that might come out of Havana on the long trail for plunder would find a match in Satan.
CHAPTER XII
AN HONEST MAN
The ketch carried on, heading straight for the Sarah; then, spilling the wind from her sails, she came round, presenting a full view of her dirty old hull and dropping her anchor two cable lengths away.
Almost on the last rasp of the anchor chain she dropped a boat, which shoved off for the Sarah.
“That’s Cleary,” said Satan, shading his eyes.