“It’s him—the scoundrel,” cried Hank.
Candon, as startled as themselves, wild-eyed and just roused from profound sleep, standing now on deck staring at Hank, took the insult right in his teeth.
He drew back a bit, glanced over, saw the Heart and turned to George.
“What’s this?” said Candon. “Where the hell have you come from?”
“Where you left us stranded on that beach,” replied George. “Where you left us when you beat it with the ship and the boodle.”
Candon’s face blazed up for a second. Then he got a clutch on himself and seemed to bottle his pride and his anger. He folded his arms and stared at the deck planking without speaking. He rocked slightly as he stood, as though unsure of his balance. He seemed to have no sense of shame. Caught and confronted with his deed, he did not seem even to be searching for excuses. There was a frown on his brow and his lips were compressed.
Suddenly he spoke.
“Well,” said Candon, “you’ve given me a name, what more have you to say?”
“Nothing,” said George.
Candon turned, spat viciously over the rail and laughed, an odious sneering laugh that raised the bristles on Hank.