“Satan’d sooner be grubbin’ round after abalones,” said Jude. “Bone lazy, that’s what he is! I know the stuff’s there, and I’m goin’ to get it if I have to dig it out myself.”
“Well, off with you then,” said the other, “and a good riddance you’d be!” Then to Ratcliffe, “We’ll run you down there some day and you can see for yourself. If you’ve any money to burn, you might like to put it in the spec’. We’d want extra help. Jude’s talkin’ through her hat. We can’t tackle that business alone, even Pap saw that—though he was mighty set on doin’ it single-handed. And that’s where the bother comes in, for the island where she’s lyin’ is Spanish, and the Dagoes would claim what we got if they knew.”
“We’d have to get half a dozen men and give them a share,” said Ratcliffe. “That would make them hold their tongues; but I see an awful lot of difficulties. Suppose you got the stuff, how are you to get rid of it?”
“We’d have to get it down to a Brazil port,” said Satan, “or run it into Caracas. That’s handier. Them Venezuelans are the handiest chaps when it comes to loose dealin’.”
“For the matter of that,” said Ratcliffe, “one could run it straight to England. There are lots of places there where we could get it ashore—but we’ve got to get it first.”
“That’s so,” said Satan. “Look! She’s puttin’ a boat off.” He pointed to the Dryad.
A quarter-boat had been lowered and was pulling away from the yacht. As she drew closer Ratcliffe saw that the man in the sternsheets, steering, was Skelton,—Skelton coming either to make trouble or to make friends.
The oars rose up and fell with a crash as the bow oar hooked on to the dingy old Sarah.
“Hulloo!” said Ratcliffe.
“Hulloo!” said Skelton.