The awful question, “Where’s your camera?” never came. If it had, Satan would no doubt have met it; but the sublieutenant was new to this sort of business and not on the hunt for evidence. The thing was palpable and plain. No complaint came from the attacked, and attacked and attackers were all seemingly friends. The words “cinematograph company” covered the situation completely.
He gave a few words of information about the Albatross. She had put in for a small repair and would be off again tomorrow morning. Then he dropped into his boat and the incident was closed.
“Now, you cusses,” said Satan, “see where you have landed yourselves! Where’d you have been only for me?”
“Well, I don’t deny you slipped the hood over that Britisher pretty smart,” said Sellers.
Cleary turned his head and looked at Sellers. “You don’t deny! Why, you bloody barnacle scraper, I told you to hold off from the business! Satan, I forgive you that clap on the head. Lord love me! I’ll never carry a derringer again. Give me a fryin’ pan, that’s the weppin; you can’t dodge it no more than you can dodge a thunderstorm.”
“Well,” said Satan, “fryin’ pan back the lot of you, and I’ll be on board the Juan inside half an hour and settle my business with you. If Cark had kept his mouth shut instead of givin’ me orders, we’d have finished it by now and no heads broke.”
“We’ll be waiting for you,” said Sellers.
They tumbled into the boats and rowed off.
“They never drew a knife,” said Ratcliffe.
“Oh, Cark took their knives from them,” said Satan. “He didn’t want no blood spillin’ and trouble,—too much afraid of the law.”