Three minutes passed, and Ratcliffe’s head appeared at the saloon hatch.
“Going?” said Skelton.
“Yes,” said Ratcliffe.
“Right! You can keep the dinghy—it’s a wedding present. Luck!”
“Same to you!” said Ratcliffe.
He gripped the other’s hand, and the grip was returned. The two men had never been so close to each other before, never would be again.
* * * * *
Two hours later the Dryad, queening it over the satin smooth harbor, dipped her flag to the humble little Sarah, and the Sarah dipped her flag to the Dryad, and someone in the Wedding Present lying alongside the Sarah waved a hat.
Skelton, at the after rail, fixed his binoculars on the hat-waver. It was Satan.
THE END