“Are you out for Cunningham’s hide?”
“What would you do in my place?”
“Sit tight and wait.”
Cleigh laughed sardonically.
“Because,” went on Dennison, “he’s played the game too shrewdly not to have other cards up his sleeve. He may find his pearls and return the loot.”
“Do you believe that? Don’t talk like a fool! I tell you, his pearls are in those casings there! But, son, I’m glad to have you back. And you’ve found a proper mate.”
“Isn’t she glorious?”
“Better than that. She’s the kind that’ll always be fussing over you, and that’s the kind a man needs. But mind your eye! Don’t take it for granted! Make her want to fuss over you.” 269
When the oncoming tramp reached a point four hundred yards to the southwest of the yacht she slued round broadside. For a moment or two the reversed propeller—to keep the old tub from drifting—threw up a fountain; and before the sudsy eddies had subsided the longboat began a jerky descent. No time was going to be wasted evidently.
The Haarlem—or whatever name was written on her ticket—was a picture. Even her shadows tried to desert her as she lifted and wallowed in the long, burnished rollers. There was something astonishingly impudent about her. She reminded Dennison of an old gin-sodden female derelict of the streets. There were red patches all over her, from stem to stern, where the last coat of waterproof black had blistered off. The brass of her ports were green. Her name should have been Neglect. She was probably full of smells; and Dennison was ready to wager that in a moderate sea her rivets and bedplates whined, and that the pump never rested.