“How far is the Catwick?”
“Somewhere round two thousand—eight or 153 nine days, perhaps ten. We’re not piling on—short of coal. It’s mighty difficult to get it for a private yacht. You may not find a bucketful in Singapore. In America you can always commandeer it, having ships and coal mines of your own. The drop down to Singapore from the Catwick is about forty hours. You have coal in Manila. You can cable for it.”
“You are honestly leaving us at that island?”
“Yes, sir. You can, if you wish, take the run up to Saigon; but your chance for coal there is nil.”
“Cleve,” said Cleigh, solemnly, “you appreciate the risks you are running?”
“Mr. Cleigh, there are no risks. It’s a dead certainty. Cunningham is one of your efficiency experts. Everything has been thought of.”
“Except fate,” supplemented Cleigh.
“Fate? Why, she’s our chief engineer!”
Cleve turned away, chuckling; a dozen feet off this chuckle became boisterous laughter.
“What can they be after? Sunken treasure?” cried Jane, excitedly.