"We shall see," said the Captain, rising to leave. "I'll go and have a look at your hooker now and see what she's like. Meet you this evening."
Mr. Solomon nodded, and stood watching the short, squat figure of his partner disappear in the direction of the harbour. Then, rubbing his hands together and chuckling wheezily, he turned away from the window.
On reaching the harbour, Calamity engaged a sampan and was taken to the steamer. There being no one on board, he was able to make an uninterrupted and very thorough examination, and, to his surprise, found that she was all that Solomon had claimed her to be. She was comparatively new—not more than five years old at most—of about 3,000 odd tons and with every indication of being seaworthy and sound. The food, too, was not as bad as it might have been; some of it, indeed, seemed quite eatable. Moreover, Mr. Solomon, in an extraordinary fit of liberality, had not only re-painted the ship, but had also caused the name Hawk to be emblazoned on her stern in letters of gold—which, by the way, Calamity had painted out the very next day. Nor had Solomon forgotten the primary object of the expedition, for in the after-hold were six machine-guns—rather antiquated as such weapons go, perhaps, but most decidedly serviceable. Ammunition and small-arms were there in plenty, the latter a somewhat miscellaneous collection of varying degrees of deadliness.
The Captain, as he noted all this, felt a growing sense of perplexity. It was so utterly unlike Mr. Solomon to do anything thoroughly—always excepting his clients, of course—that he felt almost apprehensive. He was like an animal, sniffing an appetising morsel, while fearing that it was merely the bait of some concealed trap. For some time he stood leaning on the bulwarks thinking hard, but at last the worried expression left his face and was succeeded by a smile; a smile that would not have made Mr. Solomon any the happier had he seen it.
Having made himself acquainted with the ship, Calamity decided to waste no further time. Going ashore again, he collected his crew and sent them aboard under Mr. Dykes, the mate. Those who were not sober enough to walk were carried by those who were and flung unceremoniously into the boats—a joyful, polyglot crowd with complexions as varied as their sins. On reaching the Hawk, the firemen were kicked below to get up steam and the deck-hands set to holy-stoning and polishing.
When Calamity came on board a little later, he sent for Mr. Dykes, and the two had a brief conference appertaining to the work of the ship.
"What's the crew like, Mr. Dykes?" asked the Captain presently.
"Like!" echoed the mate. "I reckon the devil's opened hell's gates somewheres around here and we've picked up a few of them what's got out. There'll be red, ruddy, blazin' mutiny before a week's out, and, with the number we've got on board, we shan't stand a yaller dog's chance."
Calamity smiled.
"Don't worry yourself, Mr. Dykes, I don't think we shall have very much trouble with them. One or two, I know, have sailed with me before and they, probably, will give the others the benefit of their experience."