Marston told him and added: "You are not on the crew list and since Kingston's a British port we will have to comply with the usual formalities. We must think of a way of accounting for your being on board." He paused and added with a touch of embarrassment: "It may be some time before the doctors let me take Harry home and I don't know——"
"You don't know what to do about me?" Rupert suggested with the smile Marston disliked. "Well, suppose you wait until you get there. I imagine I won't bother you much. In the meantime, you haven't hauled your patent-log. Let's see what distance it marks."
Columbine's log was old-fashioned. In order to read the dial it was necessary to bring the torpedo-shaped instrument on board, and Rupert, jumping on a grating, put his foot on the low taffrail as he began to haul the line. The line was long, the log, with its spiral vanes, offered some resistance, and Marston, knowing it would be a minute or two before Rupert lifted it out of the water, studied the compass. Looking round, he saw the other's bent figure outlined against the foaming wake; and then he glanced ahead. The wind was fresh and Columbine sailed fast. White combers rolled up to windward and as she plunged across their tops she threw up clouds of spray.
In about a minute, Marston looked aft again and braced himself as he gazed at the slanted rail. He had heard no splash or cry, but Rupert had gone. He shouted, and signed to the Kroo steersman, who pulled round the wheel. Columbine shipped some water as, with sails flapping and banging, she came head to wind. The long booms jerked, blocks and ropes whipped to and fro, and the crew began to run about the deck. One or two hauled down the foresail, one or two trimmed the jibs aback, and Marston helped the others at the Burton tackle to hoist out the gig.
He jumped on board as she took the water. Four excited negroes leaped down from the schooner's bulwarks, and a white sea washed across the bows as they shoved her off. They got away without damage, and pulled obliquely to leeward while Marston tried to calculate how far Columbine had gone since he last saw Rupert. It was necessary to be accurate, because, except when the combers picked up the boat, he could see nothing but the white tops of the waves. Besides, rowing on an angry sea is hard and the men would soon get exhausted. Since they could not search long, he must reach the proper spot.
No floating object tossed among the foam, and after half an hour he gave it up. Rupert Wyndham had gone; he was old, and a good swimmer could not have lived long in such a sea, because a man, buffeted by breaking waves, may drown before he sinks. The boat had shipped much water, the crew were worn out, and had some trouble to row back to Columbine. When they had hoisted in the gig and put the schooner on her course, Marston went to the cabin and mixed a drink. He was wet, his hands shook, and his arms ached, for he had been forced to use his strength while he labored with the big sculling oar.
Moreover, he was strangely disturbed. He had shrunk from Rupert Wyndham with half-instinctive repulsion. In one sense, Rupert's drowning would relieve him and Wyndham from an awkward responsibility. Marston admitted that he had recognized this, although he hoped he had not allowed it to influence him. Indeed, because he did not like Rupert, he had made sterner efforts to reach the spot where he had gone overboard; but he wondered whether he had perhaps afterwards neglected means he might have used had the man been his friend. On the whole, he did not think so, and his tormenting doubts began to vanish. For all that, he was glad Wyndham was asleep.
When, some hours later, Marston went back to the cabin Wyndham's eyes were open. The lower part of his face was covered by the bandage and he could not talk, but Marston thought he missed Rupert and was curious. Although Harry was very weak, Marston felt he had better tell him now. If he did not, his unsatisfied curiosity might keep him restless and bring the fever back.
"I know what you want to ask," he said quietly. "Rupert's not here. He fell overboard when he was hauling up the log."
Wyndham's eyelids flickered and his hand moved under the blanket, but this was the only sign he gave.