Silence. Anthony Cleigh eyed his perfecto rather ruefully and tiptoed back to the salon. Hoist by his own petard. He was beginning to wonder. Cleigh was a man who rarely regretted an act, but in the clear light of day he was beginning to have his doubts regarding this one. A mere feather on the wrong side of the scale, and the British destroyers would be atop of him like a flock of kites. Abduction! Cut down to bedrock, he had laid himself open to that. He ran his fingers through his cowlicks. But drat the woman! why had she accepted the situation so docilely? Since midnight not a sound out of her, not a wail, 95 not a sob. Now he had her, he couldn’t let her go. She was right there.
There was one man in the crew Cleigh had begun to dislike intensely, and he had been manœuvring ever since Honolulu to find a legitimate excuse to give the man his papers. Something about the fellow suggested covert insolence; he had the air of a beachcomber who had unexpectedly fallen into a soft berth, and it had gone to his head. He had been standing watch at the ladder head, and against positive orders he had permitted a visitor to pass him. To Cleigh this was the handle he had been hunting for. He summoned the man.
“Get your duffle,” said Cleigh.
“What’s that, sir?”
“Get your stuff. You’re through. You had positive orders, and you let a man by.”
“But his uniform fussed me, sir. I didn’t know just how to act.”
“Get your stuff! Mr. Cleve will give you your pay. My orders are absolute. Off with you!”
The sailor sullenly obeyed. He found the first officer alone in the chart house.
“The boss has sent me for my pay, Mr. Cleve. I’m fired.” Flint grinned amiably.
“Fired? Well, well,” said Cleve, “that’s certainly tough luck—all this way from home. I’ll 96 have to pay you in Federal Reserve bills. The old man has the gold.”