“Under what flag are you sailing?” Phil inquired.
“Herzovinian,” Captain Scott replied readily.
“You have no contraband on board?” the midshipman asked suddenly, his eyes riveted upon the sea-captain’s face.
Captain Scott’s benign smile returned.
“Young man, there’s no longer any profit in firearms.—Is that why your captain was so prompt to send his officer aboard?” he asked, laughing as if he enjoyed the joke immensely. “And besides, with the entire island available for a vessel of the ‘Talofa’s’ draft, Captain Scott would not be likely to sail into Ukula with a cargo of arms; not while there are three consuls ashore, and as many war-ships at anchor in the harbor. My cargo consists of cotton cloth and canned stuffs for the ‘firm,’ and I return to Fiji with a load of ‘copra.’”
“What is that bar of iron alongside the compass?” Phil asked curiously. He was firmly convinced that Klinger and Captain Scott were partners in some unlawful trade, but for the life of him could not see how he could drag from this benevolent host, albeit pirate and smuggler, information upon which action could be taken.
Captain Scott eyed the bar of steel. Phil thought he discerned a slight start, at least a hesitancy in his manner.
“That,” the captain replied, “is one of my mate’s clever ideas in correcting the compass. I don’t know where he learned it, but it seems very effective.”
Phil called to his boat, thanked Captain Scott, and was soon returning to the “Sitka.”
After he had gone Captain Scott tore the steel bar savagely from the compass. Then he walked forward to the forecastle. His sailors had about finished stowing the sails.