When the Black Eagle put back to Conch from following the little Spot Cash, it was evident that the opportunity had come. The weather 250 was thick; there was a promise of wind in the air. Moreover, with Archie Armstrong on the coast in a temper, it was the part of wisdom to beware. Skipper George went gloomily to the cabin when the schooner rode once more at anchor. It was time, now; he knew it, the clerk knew it, the crew knew it. But Skipper George had no liking for the job; nor had the clerk, to tell the truth, nor had the cook, nor had the crew. Rascals are not made in a day; and it takes a long time to innure them against fear and self-reproach. But skipper and crew of the Black Eagle were already committed. Their dealing for fish on the coast had been unpardonable. The skipper could not explain it in St. John’s; nor could the clerk excuse it.
“We got t’ go through with this, Tommy,” said the gloomy skipper.
“Have a dram,” the clerk replied. “I’m in sore need o’ one meself.”
It seemed the skipper was, too.
“With that little shaver on the coast,” said the clerk, “’tis best done quickly.”
“I’ve no heart for it,” the skipper growled.
The clerk’s thin face was white and drawn. His hand trembled, now, as he lifted his glass. 251 Nor had he any heart for it. It had been all very well, at first; it had seemed something like a lark––just a wild lark. The crew, too, had taken it in the spirit of larking––at first. But now that the time was come both forecastle and cabin had turned uneasy and timid.
In the forecastle, the cook said to the first hand:
“Wisht I was out o’ this.”