Chapter XVII
BILL’S WAY
The moment that the match struck the water found Bill wriggling across the deck like a sand-eel. The red tip of the cigarette in the man’s mouth glowed and waned as he drew in the smoke. A bright point in the darkness, it moved forward, and in its soft luster Bill could distinguish the shiny peak and white linen top of the man’s yachting cap, beneath which his face was a dim brown blur. Everything else was in black obscurity.
As quickly as a cat, Bill slipped down the ladder and, pressing his body against the side of the yacht, lay motionless. It was unlikely that the man would descend, for Bill had seen no boat tethered at the tiny square stage below. And now he prayed that this yacht’s officer would not select the spot directly above him to pause for contemplation of the night sky.
The man drew nearer, hesitated, as if halted by the sound of talk in the saloon below, then passed on. The slow tread of his rubber soles grew fainter, and Bill knew that he had strolled to the other side of the deck. Now was his chance. For an instant he glanced down at the dinghy. That would be the easier way, but—well, there was no telling what might happen if he went ashore.
He hastily unlaced his shoes, stuffed them in his coat pocket, and bending low, ran lightly along the deck toward the door whence the officer had emerged. Down the companionway he darted and at the bottom found himself in a narrow passage which bisected this part of the yacht fore and aft. Being familiar with this type of craft, he guessed that the passage ran forward from the saloon where Slim and Sanders were still conferring, to the galley and the crew’s quarters. On either side were the closed doors of the cabins. He listened for a second at the door nearest the stairs, turned the knob and pushed it open.
“That you, Petersen?” inquired a sleepy voice from within the dark cabin.
“The owner wants young Evans in the saloon,” growled Bill, trusting that his voice sounded not too unlike Petersen’s, who he guessed was finishing his smoke on deck. He was without weapon of any kind. If the man in the cabin became suspicious, he must run for it.
He heard a prodigious yawn. “Well, I ain’t that kid’s nurse,” he grumbled. “You ought to know, he’s in Number 3. The key’s in the door. Fetch him yourself. High tide’s at two bells and we shove off then. For the love of Mike, get out of here and let me catch forty winks!”
Bill hurriedly closed the door and looked around for Number 3. There was a night light burning in the passage and by its dim rays he soon found the cabin, just forward of the companionway. He unlocked it, slipped inside and shut the door after him.
“Say!” piped a shrill voice, and one that he recognized this time. “What’s the big idea? For the twenty-seventh time I’ll tell you I don’t know where my father is—and I care less. Beat it, and let a feller sleep!”