“Guess you’ve got to learn,” said the captain. “You don’t fancy I’m going to skip and leave you rotting on the beach, perhaps? I’m not that sort, old man. And you’re handy, anyway; I’ve been shipmates with worse.”
“God knows I can’t refuse,” said Herrick. “God knows I thank you from my heart.”
“That’s all right,” said the captain. “But it ain’t all.” He turned aside to light a cigar.
“What else is there?” asked the other, with a pang of undefinable alarm.
“I’m coming to that,” said Davis, and then paused a little. “See here,” he began, holding out his cigar between his finger and thumb, “suppose you figure up what this’ll amount to. You don’t catch on? Well, we get two months’ advance; we can’t get away from Papeete—our creditors wouldn’t let us go—for less; it’ll take us along about two months to get to Sydney; and when we get there, I just want to put it to you squarely: What the better are we?”
“We’re off the beach at least,” said Herrick.
“I guess there’s a beach at Sydney,” returned the captain; “and I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Herrick—I don’t mean to try. No, sir! Sydney will never see me.”
“Speak out plain,” said Herrick.
“Plain Dutch,” replied the captain. “I’m going to own that schooner. It’s nothing new; it’s done every year in the Pacific. Stephens stole a schooner the other day, didn’t he? Hayes and Pease stole vessels all the time. And it’s the making of the crowd of us. See here—you think of that cargo. Champagne! why, it’s like as if it was put up on purpose. In Peru we’ll sell that liquor off at the pier-head, and the schooner after it, if we can find a fool to buy her; and then light out for the mines. If you’ll back me up, I stake my life I carry it through.”
“Captain,” said Herrick, with a quailing voice, “don’t do it!”