“That’s fair,” said Miles, and stepped forward.
Old-Hab clutched his arm.
“It’s a trick!” he whispered. “Don’t ye go, Mile. It’s a trick! He might—ye may git hurt—”
“Somebody may, anyhow,” Miles answered, pulling free. “Keep your men back.” He walked to the foot of the lighthouse, and called, “Here you are, Tony.”
The door swung barely enough to let him squeeze through, and slammed at once. In the gloom, he heard the lock click, and Tony laugh quietly.
“Lucky I forgot to give up my key! Got yours with you?”
Miles fumbled in his pockets. “No,” he answered.
“Good boy! Great!” The sailor swore joyfully under his breath. “They haven’t caught me yet! Come topside where I can see you.”
They climbed the stairs, and, blinking at the sudden daylight glare in the lamp-room, sat face to face on opposite edges of the trap-door. Tony laid his pistol at his thigh, leaned back against a coil of rope, and swung his feet comfortably in the lower darkness.
“It’s bad pidgin,” he said, frowning. “Bad. Only some revenue skunk, but then! What business has a dead man to look so beastly respectable, all at once? Damn it!” Heaving his shoulders, he laughed scornfully. “Abe was getting ready to sell me out. The price, I fancy, was where they disagreed.”