"I guess you'll have to try," I returned. "You've got to do your share, Captain. I can't do this thing alone. Bind your handkerchief round your head as I do," said I. "We belong to the white sect. Don't forget that! Now," I whispered, "where is the serpent ring? That is good enough to conjure with, I think. At last it's going to do us some good. Let me have it."
I held out an impatient hand. The Skipper obediently slid his fingers into his waistcoat pocket. He began to feel for the ring. He pushed his hand down, down, down, and farther down into an opening on the right side of his nether garment. Farther and farther he felt. He slapped his thighs, his breast, his waistband. He poked and pushed deeper and deeper, and the farther down he went, so my heart fell with the depth of his unrewarded search, for I saw the look of misery which overspread his face at each succeeding trial. His face showed but too plainly what was the cause of the trouble. The Ring was gone!
CHAPTER XVI.
THE GOAT WITHOUT HORNS.
"I can't find it!" whispered the Skipper. "The Bo's'n said it would bring bad luck, and it has by not being here when it's wanted."
I went close to the old man and began to pull and twitch his clothes about in my desperate desire to find the ring.
"It's gone!" said the Skipper. "No use looking! See there! There's where it must have slipped out of my pocket—that hole. Wouldn't let poor little Cynthy mend it. Didn't know it was so big. Suz! suz! suz! What a pity!"
I am sure that I turned the colour of ashes, for the Skipper said: "Don't lose heart, Jones, my boy! Perhaps that black fellow who speaks English can get us out of it in some way. Put a bold front on it, and act the American prince."