Dennison was thereupon carried to Cabin Two, and deposited upon the stationary bed. He began to laugh. There was a sardonic note in this laughter, like that which greets you when you recount some incredible tale. His old cabin!
The men shook their heads, as if confronted by something so unusual that it wasn’t worth while to speculate upon it. The old man’s son! They went out, locking the door. By this time Dennison’s laughter had reached the level of shouting, but only he knew how near it was to tears—wrathful, murderous, miserable tears! He fought his bonds terrifically for a moment, then relaxed.
For seven years he had been hugging the hope that when he and his father met blood would tell, and that their differences would vanish in a strong handclasp; and here he lay, trussed hand and foot, in his old cabin, not a crack in that granite lump his father called a heart!
A childish thought! Some day to take that twenty thousand with accrued interest, ride up to the door, step inside, dump the silver on that old red Samarkand, and depart—forever. 92
Where was she? This side of the passage or the other?
“Miss Norman?” he called.
“Yes?” came almost instantly from the cabin aft.
“This is Captain Dennison. I’m tied up and lying on the bed. Can you hear me distinctly?”
“Yes. Your father has made a prisoner of you? Of all the inhuman acts! You came in search of me?”
“Naturally. Have you those infernal beads?”