“I’ll do this next job myself,” said Cray.
“You mean Quayle?”
“Him. You better stick to your knitting. Talk like a human being at lunch, keep that solemn-faced, secretive Quayle there, until— You ever figure there’ll maybe be a reward for them diamonds?”
“Reward?” The old captain of the Cora snorted. “Reward? If I can sleep again o’ nights, that’ll be reward enough.”
“I could do with a good sleep myself,” Cray laughed. “I might sleep through lunch hour, while Quayle’s cabin is empty.”
Morning again and bright sunlight on the Gulf. Tomorrow would see the pilot coming aboard at Father Point. Tomorrow would see, well, something rather ghastly to men who clutched secrets close, who feared the eye of the law.
But today the sun shone. Drake and the old engineer sat there by the funnel.
Old M’Ginley was sleepy. A bearing had been heating. He had not yet been to bed. He had come up for a whiff of fresh air. He was soon wide awake, for Drake, leaning over, whispered—
“I’ve been thinking what you said.”
“I said a heap, laddie.”