“Not on your life, Captain Grief. You're making an easy half-million out of this. You will sail under my directions, and when we're well to sea and on our way I'll tell you and not before.”
Grief shrugged his shoulders, dismissing the subject.
“When I've given you another drink I'll send the boat ashore with you,” he said.
Pankburn was taken aback. For at least five minutes he debated with himself, then licked his lips and surrendered.
“If you promise to go, I'll tell you now.”
“Of course I'm willing to go. That's why I asked you. Name the island.”
Pankburn looked at the bottle.
“I'll take that drink now, Captain.”
“No you won't. That drink was for you if you went ashore. If you are going to tell me the island, you must do it in your sober senses.”
“Francis Island, if you will have it. Bougainville named it Barbour Island.”