“Leave it to me,” said Miss Coulthurst. “When we get to San Francisco, just let me slip on shore, and I’ll take the first train to Los Angeles and I’ll fix it. I’ll tell old Wallack the whole truth. He won’t want compensation. I guess the advertisement he’s had will be enough for him, and the film wasn’t damaged; the reel was safe in one of those tents.”
They left it at that, ignorant of the new development impending.
Hank took the wheel and George snuffed out the binnacle lights. It was day, though the sun had not yet broken the morning bank on the eastern horizon.
“There’s a big rock on the port bow,” said George, “away over there. It’s the Santander, I believe—remember? It’s on the chart.”
“Where’s Jake?”
“Right,” said Hank. “Where’s Jake? I let him turn in ten minutes ago, he’s in the focs’le.”
“Well, I’ll go and make some coffee,” said George. “Keep her as she goes.”
He disappeared, and Hank, left alone, stood at the wheel, the warm wind gently lifting his hair and his hawk eyes wandering from the binnacle to the far off rock and from the rock to the sea line.
Ten minutes passed and then George appeared, a cup of coffee in his hand.