Every idea as to wrecking the ship, should it come on to blow, I worked and studied over. As to running the vessel off her course by false reckoning, I had to give that over as absolutely useless. Benson was not a man one could deceive easily, and he knew a compass as well as I did. I might get a hundred miles out in a week or two, without his seeing the error, but a hundred miles one way or the other would not count for anything in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean. We could get no nearer help in that way.
There was nothing to do but carry on and trust in Providence that we would be overhauled on suspicion, though there was but little hope of this happening on an American merchantman. I tried to calculate O’Toole’s chances of being picked up. All alone in the middle of the ocean, and under an equatorial sun. I knew there was but little hope for him. And even if he should be picked up he would not be able to give the slightest clue to our whereabouts or destination.
Studying and planning all sorts of desperate schemes I passed the first week. Then I determined to put off action until a favourable moment.
The weather remained fair and the lumpy little trade clouds flew merrily past our skysail trucks.
Benson took care that Miss Waters did not appear on deck often, for the temper of the men was not such that he could trust them. More than once there were mutterings concerning the life aft.
I dreaded this very much, for if the men once took charge, the horror of the conditions would be more than bearable. It would mean that both Brown and myself would be forced to go out in a futile fight against odds which could not be overcome.
One evening I managed to get near the cook without being noticed. The moke gave me a look and I spoke.
“Is there any way you can thin the crowd down?” I asked.
“What yo’ mean, sir?” he answered, with a grin.
“You know,” I said. “Hasn’t Gus spoken to you?”