Cunningham laughed boyishly.
“It’s big, and you’ll laugh, too, when I tell you.”
“On which side of the mouth?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Is it the rug?”
“Oh, that, of course! I warned you that I’d come for the rug. It took two years out of my young life to get that for you, and it has always 124 haunted me. I just told you about passions, didn’t I? Once on your back, they ride you like the devil—down-hill.”
“A crook.”
“There you go again—pot calling kettle black! If you want to moralize, where’s the line between the thief and the receiver? Fie on you! Dare you hang that Da Vinci, that Dolci, that Holbein in your gallery home? No! Stolen goods. What a passion! You sail across the seas alone, alone because you can’t satisfy your passion and have knowing companions on board. When the yacht goes out of commission you store the loot, and tremble when you hear a fire alarm. All right. Dinner at seven. I’ll go and liberate your son and the lady.”
“Cunningham, I will kill you out of hand the very first chance.”
“Old dear, I’ll add a fact for your comfort. There will be guns on board, but half an hour gone all the ammunition was dumped into the Whangpoo. So you won’t have anything but your boson’s whistle. You’re a bigger man than I am physically, and I’ve a slue-foot, a withered leg; but I’ve all the barroom tricks you ever heard of. So don’t make any mistakes in that direction. You are free to come and go as you please; but the moment you start any rough house, into your 125 cabin you go, and you’ll stay there until we raise the Catwick. You haven’t a leg to stand on.”