"Hello, Martin," he said. "I was waiting up for you. Here—keep these for me, will you?" He extended a bunch of keys. "I'm feeling extra dry tonight, and I don't want to be tempted by knowing I have the key to the medicine-chest in my pocket. Whenever I pass that confounded box, I think of the two quarts of booze inside, and my tongue swells. Just keep the keys till tomorrow, will you? Ruth kept them for me when I had my last big thirst, a few weeks ago—remember? But I would rather you kept them this time. I don't want her to know I'm having a hard time. She makes such a fuss over me, stuffs me with pills, and makes me drink that vile sassafras tea."
Martin dropped the bunch of keys into his trousers pocket. He regarded Little Billy with sympathy. For the past few days, the hunchback had again been engaged in a bout with his ancient enemy. Little Billy was fighting manfully, but the strain was telling, aging his mobile face, making rare his sunny smile and whimsical banter. Martin keenly felt the other's suffering, for he had learned to love the little cripple.
"Cheer up, Billy!" he said. "A better day coming."
"Oh, sure! Don't worry about me," responded Little Billy. "Turn in and get your sleep. I'm for the bunk, too—but I guess I'll read a bit before I turn the lamp down. Lord, don't I wish I owned a saloon! Well, tomorrow we'll find the ambergris, and I'll have money enough to drink myself peacefully to death—providing that devil, Carew, hasn't been before us to this cheerful spot. Good night."
Clambering into his bunk, the little man composed himself to a pretense of reading.
Martin decided he would not trouble Little Billy with a recital of MacLean's outburst. The poor fellow's mind was feverish enough without being bothered with the old Scotchman's wild, nonsensical raving. Martin knew the hunchback would consider gravely, and be disturbed, if he spoke. Little Billy apparently had some faith in Sails' mystical foresight.
In truth, Martin himself, was impressed and oppressed by the Scot's obscure hints of evil to come—they fitted so well with the wild and gloomy face of the volcano and the depressing fog. Martin was half ashamed of his dread of something he could not name; but he turned in standing, removing only his shoes and loosening his belt, before crawling into his bunk and drawing the blankets over him.
A strange hand grasping his shoulder brought Martin out of deep sleep to instant consciousness. The light still burned in the room, and his opening eyes first rested on the tin clock hanging on the wall opposite. It was one o'clock.
The hand that shook him belonged to MacLean. The old man was bending over him with the white face of one who has seen a ghost.
"He's gone!" he softly exclaimed, before Martin could frame a question.