Phil glanced at his watch. “Eleven thirty,” he said. “We’re about half-way.”
Most of the crew had curled themselves down in the bottom of the boat and lay motionless. Phil envied them. Even with the prospect of a hand to hand fight, against what odds they could not know, their healthy minds were wrapped in sleep.
“What brought Captain Scott back, Stump?” Phil asked after an unbroken silence of some minutes. “He was supposed to have left the islands after landing the guns.”
“Klinger said Scott heard that the Herzovinians owned the government, and that he was therefore safe to come and get his copra,” Stump answered. “But I know that he’s looking for me. I know too much. I’ve seen more than one poor black boy kicked overboard when Scott was in one of his wild fits of anger.”
“Why have you stayed so long with such a brute?” Sydney asked.
“Well, sir,” Stump replied, “I reckon I was always too scared to run away. And then,” he added fearfully, “I’ve got a few things to answer for, too. I was driven to ’em, but before a court that don’t count. I hain’t got murder, though,” he declared. “’Tain’t in no way as bad as that. Captain Scott swears I shoved a black boy overboard in a gale of wind, but ’fore God, it was an accident, and I asked to lower a boat and go after him, but Scott wouldn’t let me. I’ve done with it, and am willing to take whatever medicine is coming.”
“Fangaloa,” Tuamana grunted, pointing to the dim outline of a high cone-shaped mountain looming up on the starboard hand.
The word soon spread among the sleeping forms, and presently all were keenly alert. The gunner’s mate had secured his machine gun to be prepared to rake the enemy with a withering fire in case of opposition.
The launch turned between two bold headlands and steered for the dark land. They were running into a long narrow arm of the sea—the Bay of Fangaloa, a mile wide and three miles deep.
Every eye was strained ahead, gazing for the schooner. There were but few lights on the distant beach. Most of the natives were long ago in bed.