“No, I hadn’t,” replied the other, “but that’s nothing. It’s nothing if I’m the biggest blackguard on earth, as I intend to be. What’s the good of being honest when you’re written down a rogue out of hand the first traverse that seems suspicious—even if you are a rogue. Why, God bless my soul, them diamonds, you wouldn’t trust them on the beach with me, you must take and shove them aboard the Jack.”
“I never thought of you,” said Hank. “I was thinking of the Mexicans coming down on us.”
“Maybe,” said Candon. “So you say, but how’m I to know.” He spoke with extraordinary bitterness. To George the whole thing was beyond words, the evidence of a mentality bordering on the insane. Here was a man guilty of the betrayal of his companions, guilty of leaving them marooned on a hostile beach, yet not only unashamed but highly indignant that they should have suspected him and declared him guilty offhand. It was true there was something in what he said; they had taken his action as the action of a rogue almost from the first, but they could not have done otherwise.
He was determined to put this point right. “Look here,” he said, “we might have thought you put off for some reason other than making away with that boodle, if you hadn’t said you were going to leave us.”
“I said I was going to stick in Mexico,” replied Candon. “But there’s no use in talking any more. Question is, what to do now. I can’t stick here and I don’t want to go on the Heart, unless I berth forward and help to work the ship. You can put me ashore somewhere.”
“You’ll have to berth with Jake,” said Hank. “He’s the fellow that was on the quay that night we put off and gave the show away to McGinnis.”
“He’ll do,” said Candon, “I reckon he’s good enough for me.”
“Well, you’d better get your things then,” said George.
They went down into the cabin one after the other, Candon leading.
The first things that struck Hank’s eyes, were the automatic pistols lying on the tray shelf where he had seen them last.