The conditions were partially made known to them before setting foot on the ship; and though an honest sailor would scornfully have rejected them—even in the face of such tempting reward—Jack Striker and Bill Davis have accepted them without scruple or cavil. For they are not honest sailors; but ex-convicts, criminals still unreformed, and capable of any misdeed—piracy, or murder—if only money can be made thereby.
Since coming aboard the Condor, and mixing with her crew, they have had additional insight into the character of their contract, and the services required of them. They find that several other men have been engaged in a somewhat similar way; and at a like bounteous wage—for a while wondering at it—till after a mutual comparison of notes, and putting together their respective scraps of intelligence, with surmises added, they have arrived at a pretty accurate understanding of how the land lies, and why their entrepreneur—who is no other than the second mate, Padilla—has been so liberal.
Striker, who has seen more of the world, and is the elder of the two “ducks,” has been the first to obtain this added information; and it is for the purpose of communicating it to his old chum of the chain-gang, he has asked the latter to step aside with him. For chancing to be cast together in the middle watch, an opportunity offers, which the older convict has all that day been looking out for.
Davis, of more talkative habit, is the first to break silence; which he does on the instant of their ducking under the sailcloth.
“Well, old pal! what d’ye think of our present employ? Better than breakin’ stone for them Swan River roads, with twenty pound of iron chain clinkin’ at a fellow’s ankles. An’t it?”
“Better’n that, yes; but not’s good as it might be.”
“Tut, man, you’re always grumblin’. Five thousand dollars for a trip that isn’t like to run up to a month—not more than a fortnight or three weeks, I should say! If that don’t content you, I’d like to know what would.”
“Well, mate; I’ll tell’ee what wud. Thirty thousand for the trip. An’ Jack Striker an’t like to be satisfied wi’ anythin’ much short o’ that sum.”
“You’re joking, Jack?”
“No, I an’t, Bill. As you knows, I’m not o’ the jokin’ sort; an’ now mean what I say, sartin as I ever meant anythin’ in my life. Both me an’ you oughter get thirty thousand apiece o’ this yellow stuff—that at the werry least.”