There were extra glasses on the table and a box of cigars. The cigars were pushed along by Sellers as he spoke.
“There’s Cark’s loss of time,” said Sellers, “not to say mine and Cleary’s. We tried for you round Rum Cay when you gave us the slip, and then there was the run down here. A thousand dollars to us that means, and five hundred to Cleary.”
“Makin’ it two thousand five hundred and forty,” said Satan. “I’m agreeable—and the derelic’ is mine.”
“Which derelic’?” asked Sellers innocently.
Satan, absolutely disdaining to reply, lit a cigar.
“She’s worth all ten thousand dollars,” said he, “and what’s the salvage on that?”
“Y’mean that old dismasted catboat stuck on the sand there?” said Cleary. “Not worth five—b’sides she’s our meat.”
Satan dropped Sellers and turned to Carquinez. “You’ll maybe explain,” said he. “You know the rights of the law. If you try to collar that hooker, I’ll come in with first claim, and here’s a gentleman will back me in law expenses. You know him,—Mr. Ratcliffe, Holt & Ratcliffe.”
“I’ll back you,” said Ratcliffe.
“And it seems to me law is not your lay, Cark,” went on Satan. “We came in here yesterday and boarded and claimed that hooker, and I was fixing the tackle for towing when you blew along. The thing’s as clear as paint. She’s ours for salvage, and you’re not in it.”