"Because he had enemies on board yonder boat—you carry Spaniards, and his country is at war with Spain. They want him badly, and he is no fool. Captain, I am under obligations for your courtesy. Come and see me to-morrow and I'll keep my promise."
Shackelford smacked his lips.
"By Jove! I'll try and oblige you, my boy," he declared, enthusiastically, as he dropped down upon the thwart.
The incident was closed.
There would be no broken heads, no old time boarding of the craft, no hot time in the harbor that night.
Reason had resumed her sway, pushing valor and blind passion into the background.
One there was whom disappointment cut to the quick.
A figure arose in the boat, a bedraggled figure, with one arm of his evening coat almost divorced from its moorings on account of the vigor shown by the British tars in dragging the owner aboard—a figure that was just the opposite of the usually dandified Jerome, the pink of neatness, the epitome of current style.
"What," he ejaculated, "you decline to go aboard and drag the fellow away? I am astonished beyond measure—I did not expect this of you, Captain Bob."
"Well, I'm satisfied with the explanation given. If you still object, sir, we'll hold the boat here and let you go aboard and get him. Of course you'd have to shoulder the whole responsibility—"