One of the old schooners that used to run in the carrying trade between Havana and the Gulf ports, she had fallen from commercial honesty; anyhow in appearance, perhaps because Carquinez did not bother about appearance. You could not have damaged his paint if you had tried,—it was sun-blistered and gone green,—but his copper showed sharp and clear through the amazing brilliance of the water, without trace of weeds or barnacles.
Sellers was hanging over the rail as they came alongside.
If he felt surprise at this resurrection, he did not show it much.
“Hullo, Satan!” cried Sellers. “Thought you was dead.”
“Cark on board?” asked Satan without wasting time on explanations.
“He’s down below,” said Sellers, accepting the attitude of the other. “Who’s your friend?”
“Oh, just a gentleman that’s come along for a cruise,” said Satan. “So you’ve found me!”
“Seems so,” said Sellers; “but tie up and come aboard.”
Satan tied the painter to a channel plate and got over the side, followed by Ratcliffe.
The deck of the Juan sagged, and plank and dowel were indistinguishable one from the other by reason of dirt. Forward some of the crew were scraping a spare boom, and others collected round the foc’sle head were smoking cigarettes. The wind had died out into a warm breathing, setting aft and bringing with it a faint odor like the smell of acetylene. It was garlic.