Bahama Bill, Mate of the Wrecking Sloop Sea-Horse

by T. Jenkins Hains

"A convict," said Mr. Jones, slowly. "I am Stormalong Journegan, sailor, navigator, and was sent up for fifteen years. Bahama Bill an' me got out."

There was a long silence. Holbrook rose and went to the farther side of the yacht. Mrs. Holbrook sat a few moments and looked out to sea. Then she motioned to the steward, who was at the companionway, to take her wraps below, and she disappeared down the steps without a word.

Holbrook saw something forward and made his way toward the bow followed by his son, who turned to look back at the tall man.

"Serves her bloomin' well right fer turnin' me out," growled the Captain into the ear of the helmsman. "Next time she'll be a bit more careful about takin' passengers."

Mr. Jones, or Journegan, sat looking out over the sea. The veil of mist that hung over the land held many images for him. He saw how it was aboard. His year of reformation had taught him many things, and the lesson he was learning was not entirely new. He gazed sadly at Holbrook. He had felt drawn toward the man, but after all, in spite of his assumed contempt for holy men, he was more of a hypocrite than the veriest village parson he had ever met.

He arose slowly, unkinking his long frame like the opening of a jack-knife. Then he tossed his cigar over the side and went to his room. He was an outcast aboard that yacht and he knew it. The privacy of his room was much better than the inhospitality of the deck.

All the long afternoon he sat there thinking. He was not a strong man save for his great muscular frame. He had fallen before and he was now trying to do what he could to atone for it. The thought of the silver in the after-cabin came to him and his vacillating spirit could not quite get the glistening vision out of his brain, for after all, these people were his enemies. They could never be anything else as long as human vanity and conceit endured. Even the miserable little prig of an owner who ridiculed clergymen need not be spared. It might do his small soul good to have to part with some of his treasures. He pondered, while the light failed and the look of challenge came into his eyes. He had a powerful frame and had nothing to fear. And all the time the Dartmoor ran to leeward with the lift of the northeast sea behind her.

It was just before eight bells, when a man who had gone forward on lookout hailed the Captain.

"Something white dead ahead, sir," he cried.