“God love me!” cried Satan.
He beached the dinghy, helped Ratcliffe to run her up, and then started, followed by the other, running and shouting as he ran.
“Hi! chucklehead! Whatcha leave the ship for? Didn’t I tell you to stand by her? Whatcha huntin’ for—turkles’ eggs?”
“What you done with your eyes?” retorted the other. “Cayn’t you see?”
Instantly, and by her tone and by some sixth sense, Satan was appeased. He seemed suddenly to scent danger. He saw the work she had been on, camouflaging the cache more effectively. He cast his glance over the island, the western sea, turned, and then stood stock-still, shading his eyes.
Away beyond the Sarah Tyler across the purple blue stood a sail. The land wind had died off, and the stranger was bringing the sea wind with her. A small topsail schooner she showed now, with all sail set, making dead for the island.
“That’s him,” said Satan.
“Spotted him half an hour ago,” said Jude. “He was steering nor’-nor’west and shifted his helm when he saw us.”
The bay cedar bushes sighed suddenly to the new-risen wind, and as Ratcliffe glanced about him the feeling of the desolation of the place where he stood came to him strong,—strong in the scent of cactus and herbage, the tune of the water on the beach, and the rustle of the wind in the bushes.
“He’s been huntin’ for us,” said Satan, “curse him!”