Tommie was in the after cabin and invisible, and Hank, alone, sat down at the table and leaned his arms on it, staring at the grains in the wood and listening. Leaning like this, suddenly a tear that seemed in an awful hurry raced down his right cheek; he did not know it. He was talking to himself, repeating the same words over and over again.
“Damn scoundrel. Damn scoundrel. Damn scoundrel.”
Then, suddenly, the way fell off, a voice on deck gave an order, and the sound of the anchor chain rasped through the ship. The anchor was down.
Other sounds came that told him what was going on, then silence.
He came up. There was no one on deck but Jake chewing and spitting over-side. Away on the water, making for the wharf, was the dinghy, George rowing, Candon in the stern. Hank stood watching for a moment, calling up in his mind the day when, talking to George in the cabin of the Wear Jack, Candon first came on board. He could see him plainly as he stood in the doorway, huge, friendly looking, with those eyes, the clear, blue, truthful eyes of a child. He called up all those discussions of an evening when George was ashore and Candon hiding from McGinnis and his men, those long talks covering the world and men and women—including Ella Wheeler Wilcox. The thing made him feel frightened as though the solid deck beneath his feet were threatened to dissolve. B. C. had been in earnest during those conversations, dead earnest, yet look what he had done. If that were so, how was he, Hank, to make sure he wasn’t as bad as B. C.? Good one moment, bad the next? He tried to recall all the mean things he had ever done, going right back to his childhood. He couldn’t remember anything in particular except nicking some apples off a stall. Then he gave up thinking, and came below, where he found Tommie who had finished putting things straight. She looked pale and pretty miserable and Hank’s heart went out to her, so that he might have revealed what was in it only for his recollection of Zillah backed by Candon. Providence also helped, for at that moment, through the open ports, he heard a quick running launch checking her speed and coming washing alongside. A voice hailed Jake.
“It’s the Port man,” said Hank. He darted up to the companion way, looking over and saw the Port Authority man. It was old Captain Scudder, a friend.
“Hullo, Hank!” cried Scudder. “Lord bless my soul, where have you sprung from? Where’s the old Wear Jack?”
“Come on board,” said Hank, helping him up. “Come along down—this is better’n beans. Thought it might be some chap I didn’t know.”
“Got the Dutchman?” asked Scudder as he came down the companion way.