They are still within the grotto, unseen, as the sailcloth curtains it. Breakfast has been taken to them, which they have scarce touched.
And, now, the time has come for deciding what has to be done with them; no one openly asks, or says word upon the subject; though it is uppermost in the thoughts of all. It is a delicate question, and they are shy of broaching it. For there is a sort of tacit impression there will be difficulty about the appropriation of this portion of the spoils—an electricity in the air, that foretells dispute and danger. All along it had been understood that two men laid claim to them; their claim, whether just or not, hitherto unquestioned, or, at all events, uncontested. These, Gomez and Hernandez. As they had been the original designers of the supposed deed, now done, their confederates, men little given to love-making, had either not thought about the women, or deemed their possession of secondary importance. But now, at the eleventh hour, it has become known that two others intend asserting a claim to them—one being Blew, the other Davis.
And these two certainly seem so determined, their eyes constantly turning towards the grotto where the girls are, unconscious of the interest they are exciting.
At length the dreaded interrogatory is put—and point blank. For it is Jack Striker who puts it. The “Sydney Duck” is not given to sentiment or circumlocution.
Speaking that all may hear him, he blurts out:
“Well, chums? what are we to do wi’ the weemen?”
“Oh! they?” answers Gomez in a drawling tone, and with an affectation of indifference. “You’ve nothing to do with them, and needn’t take any trouble. They’ll go with us—with Señor Hernandez and myself.”
“Will they, indeed?” sharply questions the chief officer.
“Of course,” answers Gomez.
“I don’t see any of course about it,” rejoins Blew. “And more’n that, I tell ye they don’t go with ye—leastwise, not so cheap as you think for.”