“Well, you don’t expect to fall into anything very certain, do you, a diver blacklisted from Kittery to the Keys?” he demanded, tartly.
“No, sir.”
“I know nothing about these people, their plans, or anything. But I’ll do this for you, if you want me to. I’ll wire this party and tell him I am sending you on. After you are started you can post him from some place as to when you’ll arrive. Better give him a wire from time to time to keep his interest up. How’s your wallet?”
“I think it’s all right, sir.”
“If you’re lying to me that’s your own lookout. Haven’t sold your diving-dress, have you?”
“I have it safe in storage, sir.”
“Well, I’m glad you kept remembering that you’re a diver—and the best one I ever turned out!” That was the first word of high praise he had given me. He got up and shook my hand. “Now go dive, son, and after you raise that four million from the wreck of the Golden Gate come back and tell me all about it.”
I did not linger in the city; there were too many possibilities in the way of Dawlins and Doughtys.
Two hours later I was headed across the continent with my diving-dress in its canvas bag and the address of one Captain Rask Holstrom written in my note-book. I was pretty dizzy with the haste of it all and felt like the human shuttle between oceans—but I possessed considerable more serenity than I did when I began that lunatic lope with Judge Kingsley.
I had framed a motto and hung it in my soul—“I’ll show ’em!”