Ratcliffe’s blood was beginning to rise in temperature. He knew quite well Skelton wanted him to go back, but was too proud to say so, and he knew quite well that Skelton wanted him back, not for any love of him, but simply because the position was irregular and people, if they heard of all this, might talk; also it might seem queer to the yacht’s crew.
“Well, then, if you don’t specially want me back, I’ll stay,” said he.
“Very well,” said Skelton, “as you please. I wash my hands of the affair, and if you come to grief it is your own lookout. I will have the remainder of your baggage forwarded home to you when I reach England.”
“I’ll maybe see you at Havana when this cruise is over,” said Ratcliffe vaguely.
“I doubt it,” said Skelton. “It is quite possible I may not call there.” He turned and began to climb the companionway. On deck he nodded frigidly to Satan and got over the side.
Satan, leaning across the rail, looked down.
“How about that mains’l?” asked Satan jocularly.
“I’m afraid I have no more spare canvas available,” said Skelton, with a veiled dig at the rapacity of the lantern-jawed one, “or provisions. Anything else I shall be delighted to let you have.”
“Well, then,” said Satan, “you might send us a loan of the dinghy. We’re short of boats.”
“You shall have her,” said Skelton with a glance at Ratcliffe, who was also leaning over, as though to say, “This is the sort of man you have thrown your lot in with!”