“There’s no use in talk,” said he; “we’d better be gettin’ on with our business. You’ll want somethin’ in the way of a sack to cart all that stuff off to the schooner. I’ll fetch you one.”
He turned to the companion ladder and climbed it in a leisurely fashion. On deck he took a deep breath and stood for a moment scanning the horizon from north to south. Then he turned and cast his eyes over Santa Catalina and the distant coast line.
Not a sail was visible, nor the faintest indication of smoke in all that stainless blue, sweeping in a great arc from the northern to the southern limits of visibility.
No one was present to watch Ginnell and what he was about to do. No one save God and the sea gulls—for Chinese don’t count.
He stepped to the cabin hatch.
“Misther Harman!” cried he.
“Hello!” answered Harman, from below. “Whacher want?”
“It’s about the Bank of California I want to speak to you,” replied Ginnell.
Harman’s round and astonished face appeared at the foot of the ladder.
“Bank of California?” said he. “What the blazes do you mean, Pat Ginnell?”