“What I’m telling you. It came on me to do it and I did it. I’ve been in and out often enough, but never at the wheel nor navigating. I had the lay of the place in my head but it was a near touch.”
Hank at the wheel gave a laugh that sounded like a cough.
“I felt it in my bones,” said Hank.
“What?” asked Candon.
“Why that you were driving out half blind; as near as paint you had us on to Alcatraz and you all but rammed the Presidio. I was standing on my toes wanting to yell ‘Put your helm over,’ but I kept my head shut, didn’t want to rattle you.”
“Bughouse, clean bughouse,” said Candon. “Makes me sweat in the palms of my hands now I’ve done it, but I tell you boys, I couldn’t have missed. Going by night like that one can’t judge distance and as for the lights, they’d better have been away, but I couldn’t have missed, I was so certain sure of myself. It comes on me like that at times, I get lifted above myself, somehow or another.”
“I’m the same way myself,” said Hank, “it comes on me as if I got light-headed and I’m never far wrong if I let myself go. Bud here will tell you I rushed this expedition through more by instinct than anything else—didn’t I, Bud?”
Bud assented, unenthusiastically.
George Harley du Cane, out and away now with the Pacific beneath him and his eyes fixed on the far-off loom of the land, was thinking. He had recognized, even before starting, that Hank and Candon were, temperamentally, pretty much birds of the same feather. Not only had their discussions as to socialism and so forth seemed to him pretty equally crazy, but he had recognized, in a dim sort of manner, that they infected one another and that their “bughouse” qualities were not diminished by juxtaposition. However, safe in port, the sanity or insanity of his companions, expressed only in conversation about abstract and uninteresting affairs, did not seem to matter. Out here it was different, somehow, especially after the exhibition Candon had just given them of daring carried to the limits of craziness. And who was Candon, anyhow? A likable man, sure enough, but the confessed associate of more than shady characters, and they had accepted this man on his face value, as a pilot in an adventure that was sure to be dangerous, considering the character of the man they were out to hunt.
Well, there was not a bit of use bothering. He had gone into the business with his eyes open. There he was, wealthy, at ease with all the world, talking to those men in the club, when in came Hank with his lunacy, saying he was going to catch Vanderdecken. He had followed the Rat Trap Inventor out, taken his arm and insisted on becoming part and parcel of his plans. Why? He could not tell why. And now he was tied up in a venture with Chinks and two cranks; a venture which, if it failed, would make him ridiculous, if it succeeded might make him a corpse. He might now have been respectably shooting in the Rockies only for his own stupidity.