"Eet ees not dat," Gonzague responded, with eloquent hands and shoulders; "he ees fine as de seelk, but—but Mistaire Taberman he ees not zee capataine you."
Jerry was anxious to make an early start for Pæstum, as the wind was light, so Jack took his leave with hearty wishes for a prosperous run. Jerry went with him to the steps.
"By the way, Jack," he asked in an undertone, as the captain was about to descend to take his place in the cutter, "are congratulations in order?"
Castleport looked away from his friend toward where, across the bay, in a dim haze of purple, stood Capri. Then he glanced quickly into Jerry's eyes.
"I—I haven't said anything to her," he answered simply.
He ran down the steps to the cutter. Gonzague himself had taken the boat-hook to hold the craft steady. Castleport put his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder.
"Good-by, Gonzague," he said. "I'm coming aboard for keeps to-morrow. Good-by, Jerry."
"Good-by, and—good luck," called Tab in reply, as the cutter started away.
It lacked a quarter of an hour to twelve that night when the Merle hove to a cable's length off Pæstum. The wind had freshened at sundown, and was blowing a smart breeze from the west. Jerry had the cutter lowered, and, leaving Gonzague in charge, with stringent orders to keep the yacht lying where she was, had himself pulled toward the shore. The men had no notion what was going on, but they obeyed orders with a prompt alacrity which showed that they felt that something of unusual import was in this business. When the cutter was within about a hundred feet of the shore, Tab ordered the men to lie on their oars, and keep watch for a light. In silence and utter darkness, for though the stars were shining there was no moon, they tossed about in the black troughs of the sea for twenty minutes. Then Dave uttered a guarded exclamation.