Slyne hung back, his gorge up again.
"What are you going to do?" he demanded.
"You do your part and I'll do mine," snapped Captain Dove. And Slyne cast loose the second wind-chute.
Into the wide, rusted mouth of the ventilator Captain Dove cautiously thrust one end of the flat cigar box and pushed that well down its open throat. A muffled click was no more than audible but, none the less, caused Slyne to start apprehensively. And then the old man withdrew the box, tossed it over the ship's side, and, with a hurried whisper to Slyne to make the canvas fast again, scuttled off back to the saloon.
Slyne was not slow in following him, but stubbed his toes hurtfully on his way to the stair and could scarcely repress the curse that rose to his lips. Just then, however, he caught sight of a shadow at the near end of the bridge above, which, he knew, was Da Costa, on watch, and he did not care to be detected in any such dangerous and undignified predicament. When he limped into the saloon below he found Captain Dove seated there, once more sucking at a cigar, head cocked on one side as if listening for something.
"Was it an explosive?" demanded Slyne, almost boiling over at the idea that he had unwittingly been risking his life as a cat's-paw.
"What the blazes are you talking about?" Captain Dove counter-questioned acidly. "And where have you been, eh? I thought you said you were going to bed."
He stared unwinkingly into the other's angry, suspicious eyes. "What's it like on deck?" he inquired. "Any sign of wind yet?"
"You ought to know, you've just been on deck," snapped Slyne.
"On deck!" exclaimed Captain Dove in surprise. "Not me. I've been sitting smoking here since you left the saloon."