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Title: The Pearl Fishers

Author: H. De Vere Stacpoole

Release date: June 22, 2017 [eBook #54959]
                Most recently updated: February 5, 2018

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Roger Frank, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)


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E-text prepared by Roger Frank, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed
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available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)



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THE PEARL FISHERS

H. DE VERE STACPOOLE


      *      *      *      *      *      *

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE PRESENTATION

_A Romance of Old Paris_

The scene of this romantic story is laid in Paris and its time is in
the year 1770. The central figure is Comte de Rochefort, who chances to
discover a plot to prevent Mme. du Barry from being presented at court.
Later he has a night adventure which throws him into Mme. du Barry's
party while it is on its way to the court, and he aids the Chief of
Police of Paris to outwit those who had plotted against the lady.

_Colored Frontispiece._      _Cloth._      _$1.30 net_

JOHN LANE COMPANY
PUBLISHERS      NEW YORK

      *      *      *      *      *      *


THE PEARL FISHERS

by

H. DE VERE STACPOOLE

Author of
"The Presentation," "The Blue
Lagoon," etc.






New York
John Lane Company
MCMXV

Copyright, 1915
By Street & Smith

Copyright, 1915
BY JOHN LANE COMPANY

Press of
J. J. Little & Ives Company
New York, U.S.A.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                 PAGE

       I. ALONE                              9
      II. THE ISLAND                        16
     III. THE SECRET OF THE LAGOON          29
      IV. SCHUMER'S STORY                   37
       V. DREDGING                          44
      VI. RISK OF WAR                       53
     VII. THE BLACK PEARL                   65
    VIII. THE LAST OF THE WRECK             69
      IX. A WEEK'S WORK                     77
       X. THE SCHOONER                      79
      XI. THE PUNISHMENT                   100
     XII. THE POWER OF SCHUMER             103
    XIII. THE HOUSE                        114
     XIV. MOSTLY ABOUT PEARLS              118
      XV. PLANS                            127
     XVI. SCHUMER GOES AWAY                131
    XVII. THE FIRST OF THE TWO PEARLS      135
   XVIII. THE VANISHING OF ISBEL           144
     XIX. THE MIRACLE                      152
      XX. THE TROUBLE WITH SRU             158
     XXI. BEFORE THE ATTACK                164
    XXII. THE GREAT FIGHT                  179
   XXIII. DAYBREAK                         191
    XXIV. HAKLUYT                          205
     XXV. ORDERED TO SYDNEY                209
    XXVI. GOOD-BY                          214
   XXVII. SYDNEY                           218
  XXVIII. CARDON                           232
    XXIX. PETER WILLIAMS                   243
     XXX. THE OPEN SEA                     252
    XXXI. THE ISLAND                       267
   XXXII. ENVOI                            301




THE PEARL FISHERS




THE PEARL FISHERS




CHAPTER I

ALONE


The sun was breaking above the sea line, and the Pacific, heaving to
the swell, lay all to the eastward in meadows of gold.

The little boat, moving gently to the vast and tremorless heaving of
the sea, seemed abandoned in that world where nothing moved save the
swell, and, far away, a frigate bird drifting south, dwindling and
vanishing at last, blotted out in the blue of the morning sky.

The man in the stern of the boat lay as though he were dead, his arm
curled over a water breaker and his head on his arm; but now, at the
first touch of the sun, he moved, sat up, and, clasping his head with
both hands, stared about him.

Heavens! What an awakening that was from sleep, the absolute and
profound sleep that follows on disaster! In a moment, as though his
mind had been suddenly lit by a great flash of energy that had been
accumulating since he closed his eyes, he saw the whole of the events
of the last three days in their entirety; he saw the past right back to
his childhood, as men see it in that supreme moment that comes to the
drowning, and which lights recollection to its farther frontiers.

He saw the schooner _Cormorant_ landing at Ginnis' Wharf in Frisco,
and he saw himself on board of it as second mate, Harrod, the first
mate, standing by the weather rail, and Coxon, the skipper, just come
on board, wiping his face with a red bandanna handkerchief before
giving orders to cast off from the wharf where the tall Cape Horners
lay moored by the Russian oil tanks, and the grain vessels by the great
elevators were filling with living wheat.

He saw the Golden Gate and towering Tamalpais and the great Pacific,
violent with the ruffling of the west wind and rolling toward the
coast, to burst in eternal song on the beaches of California.

They were bound for Papeetong, away down near the Low Archipelago, with
a trade room well stocked and plenty of copra in prospect.

The _Cormorant_ was well found, well manned, and Coxon was an A-1
schooner captain; everything promised a prosperous voyage and a quick
return, when on the evening of the second day out Coxon had called his
second mate down to the saloon.

"Floyd," said he, "it's not for me to say a word to the second mate
against the first, but Harrod, though he's the best chap in the world
in some ways, has a weak spot, and that's drink. You notice he never
touches anything, but there's no knowing how long he's on that tack--it
may last the voyage, it mayn't. Not that he's any way out of the common
when he's on liquor, but it's never no good to have a man boozy out
of port, so, like a good chap, lead him off it if he seems taken that
way. He's my own brother-in-law, and as good as they make 'em, else he
wouldn't be aboard the _Cormorant_. It's my ambition to break him of
it, and he's willing to be broke; still, the flesh is weak, as you'll
soon discover if you live long in this world and knock against men--and
there you are. A word to the wise."

Coxon's own weakness was a violent temper--we all have our
weaknesses--and Floyd's was a happy-go-lucky optimism that made him
believe in all men. He was only twenty-two, the son of a parson in
Devonshire, educated up to fifteen at Blundell's School, set adrift in
the world by the death of his father, and choosing the sea, prompted by
the master ambition of his life, to be a sailor.

Harrod had run straight for the first week, and then he had fallen. He
would appear on deck slightly thick of speech, and sometimes he had a
stagger in his walk, and he would repeat his remarks in an uncalled-for
way, and tend to turn quarrelsome at the least word.

They could not tell where he got the drink from, nor did they know the
fact that his condition was due neither to rum or whisky, but to samshu.

Samshu is a horrible, treacly compound made by the Chinese of the
coast; it is not kept in a bottle, but in a jar, and it is the last
thing in the way of intoxicants. Balloon Juice, Cape Smoke, Valley Tan
vie with each other in villainy, but Samshu is the worst.

It is very rarely found out of Canton and Shanghai, and it had been
brought on board the _Cormorant_ by the Chinese cook, who traded it to
Harrod for money and tobacco.

A gale had struck them, driving them some hundred miles from their
course, and when it had passed, Harrod, one afternoon, under the
influence of this stuff, had gone into the hole where paint and
varnish were stored, carrying a light. A few minutes later came a cry
of fire. Coxon was the first man on deck. He saw in a moment that there
was no hope. The varnish room was blazing like a torch, belching smoke
and sparks and jets of flame like a dragon, and just as unapproachable.

There was nothing to be done but take to the boats.

The Kanaka crew and the Chinaman whose samshu jar had done all this
bundled into the longboat. Floyd ought to have been with them, but
he was held back by the work of victualing and lowering the quarter
boat, and they shoved off without him, so the three officers were
left--Floyd, in the quarter-boat, and the skipper and Harrod quarreling
on deck. Coxon's temper had overmastered him. He was the owner of the
_Cormorant_, and his whole fortune was in the trade on board.

Floyd, hanging on with a boat hook, heard the shouting and stamping
of the men on deck. He tried to get on board again to separate them,
but the smoke drove him back, the heat was terrific, and he cast off,
rowing round to the windward side in the hope of boarding her there.
As he passed round the stern he was just in time to see the end of the
tragedy, Coxon flinging Harrod over the weather rail and following him
into the sea.

Neither of the two men appeared again, and the reason was very
obvious--the water was filled with gray, flitting shadows. The tragedy
of the burning schooner had made its call through the depths of the
sea, and the sharks were assembling for the feast. Floyd waited.
The whole of this terrible business had left him numb and almost
unmoved. Tragedy thrills one most in the theater; on the real stage the
imagination becomes paralyzed before the actual.

He pushed away farther from the flaming schooner; she was burning now
like a torch, and volumes of white smoke passed away to leeward on the
wind.

The sun was setting, and the picture of the burning ship against the
glowing western sky would have been unparalleled had there been eyes
to see it as a picture. Floyd, gazing at it, watched while the flames,
half invisible, like the ghosts of brightly spangled snakes, ran up the
masts. He saw the canvas wither away, and then he watched her lurch as
the seams opened to the heat and dip her bowsprit in the sea.

She settled slowly, the sea boiling about her, and then suddenly she
plunged bow first and vanished.

In less than twenty seconds there was nothing to tell that a vessel had
been there with the exception of a wreath of smoke dissolving in the
blue of evening.

The upper limb of the sun had just passed beneath the horizon, and
in the momentary twilight before the rush of the stars Floyd saw the
longboat, far away, and with sail hoisted to the wind.

Then the night came down, and at dawn next day the longboat had
vanished.

As he awoke from sleep now he saw all these pictures vividly. Till the
night before he had not slept at all, and it was the return to normal
conditions of his brain refreshed by sleep that now gave him a full
view of his past and his position.

The quarter-boat possessed a mast and lugsail; he had stepped the mast
and hoisted the sail, which now hung limp and flicking to the warm,
steadily blowing wind.

He rose up, and, standing with one hand on the mast, looked over the
sea. North, south, east, and west it lay blazing in the sunshine, with
not a sign of sail or wing on the dazzle and the blueness, an infinite
world of sky, an infinite world of water all flooded by the living
light of the great golden sun.

Floyd, having glanced about him, returned to his former place in the
stern of the boat and began to review his stores; he had taken stock of
them twice in the last two days, but had you asked him now to give an
account of them he would have been at a loss to say exactly how they
stood.

The water breaker was his first consideration. It was half full--enough
to last him for six days, he reckoned. There was a full bag of ship's
bread, another half full, some tins of potatoes, some tins of canned
meat, but no can opener, and a few tins of condensed milk. So much for
the provisions. There were also in the boat the ship's papers and a
japanned tin box containing the ship's money. These Coxon had flung in
before the quarrel between him and Harrod had broken out. There was
nothing else at all with the exception of a boat hook and a bailer.

He had in his pockets a knife and one of those tinder boxes in which
the flint strikes on a wheel, a pocket handkerchief, a few loose
matches, and a pipe and some tobacco. It was American navy twist, and
he had nearly half a pound of it. It was the first thing he found in
his cabin on rushing down, and it was the only thing he had taken away.

Having breakfasted off a biscuit and a bit of meat from one of the
cans which he managed to haggle open with his knife, he lit his pipe,
brought the sheet aft, and took the tiller. It did not matter in the
least where he steered, for Australia and China lay away to the west,
the whole continent of America to the east--both were hopeless; the Low
Archipelago lay to the south, and the hope of an island was just as
brilliant in any given direction.

So he gave his sail to the wind, trusting in God.

As the morning wore on, the sea line became hung with light, fleecy
clouds that deepened the far-off blue of the sea. This fringe of light
cloud often hangs on the skirts of the Trades. Steering, Floyd could
hear the tune of the water as it flapped on the boarding and rippled in
the wake. The breeze was not strong enough to raise any sea, and the
swell was scarcely perceptible unless to the eye.




CHAPTER II

THE ISLAND


About an hour before noon Floyd, relinquishing the tiller, stood up
and, supporting himself by the mast, looked around. Then, sheltering
his eyes with his hand, he fixed his gaze straight ahead.

The sea line at one point was broken, and the sky just above the broken
point had a curious and brilliant paleness.

Once before he had seen a bit of sky like that, and he guessed it at
once to be the reflection cast upward from a lagoon island.

The sight of it dried his lips and made the sweat stand out on the
palms of his hands; then, taking his place again at the tiller, he
resumed his course.

The boat was making about three knots, and he reckoned that the island
could not be more than ten miles away. Were bad weather suddenly to
spring on him Pacific fashion, he might either be driven out of reach
of the shelter before him or sunk. But the wind held fair and steady
with no sign of squalls, and now, when he looked again, he could see
the palm-tree tops raised high above the water, and--what was that--a
ship?

The masts of a ship, all aslant, showed thready near the palms. She was
wrecked--of that there could be no manner of doubt.

The shimmer of the sea cut off everything but the palm tops, the palm
stems, and the masts; they seemed based on air.

In an hour, standing up again, Floyd made out the whole position
distinctly.

The island that lay before him was simply a huge ring of coral clipping
a lagoon a mile or more in diameter, as he afterward discovered. It
was not an even ring; here and there it swelled out into great spaces
covered with palms and artus and hotoo trees. Near the break in the
reef for which he was now steering, piled up on the coral literally
high and dry, lay the carcass of what had recently been a schooner of
some two hundred tons.

She must have been sent right up by some great lift of the sea.

As he drew near he could see that the planking had been literally
stripped off her from a huge space reaching from the stern post almost
to midship; there was no rudder; the sails, he thought, had either
blown away or flogged themselves to pieces, taking with them gaffs
and booms. Then he remembered that the masts, still standing by some
miracle, would certainly have snapped like carrots had sail enough been
on her to carry away the spars like that. He could not tell. The thing
hypnotized him as he watched it, his hand on the tiller and the opening
of the reef before him.

Though the sea was as calm as the Pacific can ever be, a steady surf
was breaking on the reef. The boom of it came to him now against the
wind, and the boat heaved to the short sea made by the resistance of
the great coral breakwater.

It was like the bourdon note of an organ, and though it swelled and
sank it never ceased, for it was the tune that ringed forever the whole
four-mile circuit of the atoll.

Then as he passed the coral piers and opened the lagoon, the sound of
the surf grew less loud and the boat went on an even keel.

Before him lay the great blue pond, calm as a summer lake; the shore
surrounding it showed long beaches of salt-white coral sand and great
spaces of foliage; palms and breadfruit, mammee apple bushes and cane,
colonies of trees all moving, gently pressed upon by the warm trade
wind, whose breath made violet meadows on the broad lagoon.

It was the most extraordinary place in the world.

It had a touch of the ornamental, as though some city more vast and
wealthy and populous than any city we know of had decreed this great
space of water as a pleasure lake, ordered the white of sand and
green of foliage, emerald of shallow water and blue of deep, and then
vanished, leaving its pleasure place to the wastes of ocean.

The water at the opening of the lagoon was very deep, but inside it
shoaled rapidly, and Floyd, glancing over the thwart, saw the white
sand patches and coral lumps of the lagoon floor almost as clearly as
though he were gliding over them through air.

He swept the circular beach with a glance, flung up his hand to shade
his eyes, and then with a shout put the helm over and hauled the sheet
to port.

Away on the beach to the right something flapped; it was the sailcloth
of a rudely made tent, and by the tent, waving its arm, stood the
figure of a man; by the man, squatting on the beach sand, was another
figure, small and difficult to distinguish.

Floyd instantly connected these figures with the wreck; they were
evidently the remains of the shipwrecked crew.

As he drew closer the man on the beach showed up more clearly--a
bronzed and bearded man in dubiously white clothes, and the figure
seated on the sand revealed itself as a girl; she was almost as dark as
the man, and she was seated with her hands clasping her knees.

He unstepped the mast and took to the sculls; a minute later the stem
of the boat was grinding the sand of the beach, and Floyd was over the
side helping to pull her up.

Before they exchanged a word they pulled her up sufficiently to keep
her from drifting off with the outgoing tide. It was easy to see they
were sailors.

"She's all right," said the bearded man; "and where in the name of
everything have you come from?"

Floyd flung both hands on the shoulders of the other. It was not till
this moment that he had borne in on him the frightful loneliness and
the fate from which he had escaped.

"I'd never hoped to see a living man again," said he. "Never, never,
never! You're real, aren't you? Don't mind me. I'm half cracked; your
fist--there--I'm better now."

"Wrecked?" said the bearded man.

"Yes; wrecked, burned out. The _Cormorant_ was the name, bound from
Frisco to Papeetong; drink and fire did for us----"

He stopped short. He had been staring at the girl. She had shifted
her position only slightly, and she was looking at him with eyes that
showed little interest and less emotion--the eyes of a person who is
gazing at shapes in a fire or at some object a great distance off.

She was a Polynesian--a wonderfully pretty girl, almost a child,
honey-colored, with a string of scarlet beads showing on her neck about
the scanty garment that covered her, and with a scarlet flower in her
jet-black hair.

It was a flower of the hibiscus that grew in profusion in all the
groves of the atoll.

"That's Isbel," said the bearded man. "Kanaka, called after the place
she came from. Isbel Island in the Marshalls. I'm Schumer, trader
and part owner of the _Tonga_. There she is"--jerking his thumb at
the wreck. "Hove up in a gale a month ago; we've been here a month;
every man jack drowned but me and Isbel. I've salved a bit of the
cargo--foodstuffs and suchlike. What's your name?"

"Floyd."

"Well, that's as good as any other name in these parts, anyhow."

He sat down on the sand near the girl, and Floyd did likewise. Then
Schumer, taking a pipe and some tobacco from his pocket, began to
smoke. He talked all the time.

"We've rigged up a bit of a tent. Isbel prefers to sleep out in the
open. Kanaka. Not much between them and beasts except the hide. Well,
tell us about yourself. What's the name of the schooner did you say
was burned?"

Floyd told; told the whole story while Schumer listened, smoking,
lolling on his back and cutting in every now and then with a question.

"Well," said he, when the other had finished, "that lays over most
yarns I've heard. And what's become of that boatload of Kanakas, I
wonder? Starved out most likely. Good for you they took their hook;
good for me, too, for now we've got your boat, and a boat's a handy
thing. We can get across the lagoon easy, for there's no getting round
on foot beyond that clump of cocoanuts on the shore edge there. There's
a quarter mile or so of broken coral all that way; razors ain't in it
beside broken coral. We can fish, too, and it may be handy to have
a boat if we sight a ship, though this island is clean out of trade
tracks. We were blown two hundred miles from our course."

"What was your cargo?" asked Floyd.

"Printed stuffs, tinware, and general trade; a missionary--he was
washed overboard--and several passenger Kanakas under him. Isbel
belonged to his lot. She can talk English--can't you, Isbel?"

"Yes," replied the girl.

It was the first thing she had uttered, and Floyd noticed the softness
of her voice and the way she avoided the "y," or rather the hardness of
it, without breaking the word or mutilating it.

"It was the storm of storms," said Schumer; "there we were, running
before it with scarcely a rag of canvas set and every wave threatenin'
to be our last, every man jack on deck clinging to whatever he
could hold when the great smash came. I don't know how I escaped.
Providence, mostlike--same with Isbel, though I guess she's so little
account she escaped the way some did in the earthquake out in Java
three years ago. I saw a whole family flattened out under their own
roof and a basket of kittens saved. It's that way things work in this
world."

"Well," said Floyd, lying on his back on the sand--there was shade here
from the trees--"I'm jolly glad you were saved. Good Lord, it's only
coming on me now, the whole business; it's just as if one had escaped
from the end of the world. It's not good to be drifting about in a boat
alone."

Schumer agreed.

Floyd had now taken stock of his new companion. He was a powerfully
built man with a bold and daring face, a trifle hard, perhaps--hard
certainly one would say in striking a bargain; he was tanned by sun
and wind, and despite his name he spoke English like an Englishman;
sometimes the faintest trace of an American accent was perceptible,
and sometimes the inimitable American cast of words lending color and
picture to his conversation.

Floyd liked him.

"Well," said Schumer, rising up, "let's go and have a look at the
old hulk; there's some more stuff worth salving--not that if I had a
derrick and more boats and a ship to lade the stuff in I wouldn't salve
the lot. By the way, what did you bring off in that boat of yours?"

"There's some biscuits and canned stuff, and a tin box with the ship's
papers and some money--nothing much."

"Money, did you say--how much?"

Floyd told him.

"Well," said Schumer, "money's not of any use to us here--wish it was;
all the same, it's worth having, for there's no knowing the moment the
door may be opened for us to get out of here."

He led the way toward the wreck, Floyd and Isbel following.

The coral islands of the Pacific may be roughly divided into two
classes: compound islands--that is to say, islands made of solid land
and surrounded by a coral ring or breakwater, and simple islands or
atolls--that is, simple rings of coral inclosing lagoons.

Then we have occasionally a third variety, an atoll island in whose
lagoon one finds several islets.

This island that Floyd had struck was of the simple variety; the lagoon
was of an irregular form, circular as a whole, yet here and there
making bays in the coral.

The coral ring had four definite areas upon which vegetation
flourished; one might say that the ring inclosing the lagoon consisted
of four islands, each joined to each by naked coral.

The _Tonga_ had been lifted by one great heave of the sea right onto
the raw coral of the northern pier of the reef. It was not so great
a feat, after all, for the reef was lower than elsewhere, and ships
before this have been lifted over atoll reefs and deposited upside down
in lagoons.

The _Tonga_ was not upside down, but she was broken fore and aft, and
the fact that her masts were still standing formed another incident in
that category of strange incidents--the story of the power of the sea.

The rudder had been plucked off and lay there like a great barn door
flung down on the coral; the pintles were gone as though they had been
torn from the wood by forceps; the planking, as I have already said,
was stripped from the port side right to midships; she lay with a list
to port, and through the great gaping wound where the ribs of the
vessel showed like the ribs of a half-devoured carcass, the contents
of the trade room and cabin could be seen half shed on the coral, half
still contained.

Bales of print, kegs and cases, burst boxes of canned provisions, bird
cages, trade gin, some cases of cheap rifles destined for the King of
Apaka, who was in revolt against German rule, and who was anxiously
awaiting the consignment--these and twenty more varieties of things lay
there festering in the sun, watched by the sea birds and blown upon by
the wind.

"Good heavens," said Floyd, "what a spill!"

"It's just that," said Schumer, "and it's not good to see so much stuff
gone to waste, especially when one's money has paid for it, or part
paid for it. It wasn't all my venture. There's a man at Sydney who's my
partner. Well, there's no use crying over spilled goods; let's try and
do what we can. Now you are here we may be able to salve more of the
stuff than I had hoped. First thing is to get some of the perishables
under shade. The sun doesn't hurt rifles, but it doesn't improve prints
and provisions."

"I'll help," said Floyd; "anything's better than doing nothing."

"Then come along, my son," replied Schumer. "Claw hold of the other end
of this case, and you, Isbel, follow along with that mat of rice."

A few mats of rice had been among the cargo of the _Tonga_, and though
here on the island there was evidence of an abundance of food, Schumer
seemed to pay especial attention to the salving of provisions. Perhaps
with that keen brain of his, which had carried him so far in life
against tremendous odds, he foresaw the time when these same provisions
would be more valuable as a trade asset than minted gold.

They worked for several hours, and then knocked off and came back to
where the tent was pitched.

Schumer proceeded to light a fire, while Floyd and Isbel got together
the things for supper.

Schumer the day before had managed to catch a small turtle, and he
now set to to grill some of the flesh. He also boiled some water for
coffee, and in half an hour Floyd found himself before the best supper
he had ever sat down to.

"It's good for us there's water here," said Schumer, when they had
finished. "You see, if this island had been a ring of coral hove up out
of the sea there wouldn't have been any natural water here, but it's
not. It's my belief it's more a ring of mountaintops just showing with
coral bridging between; anyhow, there's lots of water--at least enough
for us. Well, we'll take your boat out in the morning and have a good
look at the lagoon, and see what we can find in those bays over there.
I've got some fishing tackle and we can fish--shellfish makes good
bait; there's no fishing of any account to be had on the shore edge,
but there's big things to be done out in the lagoon."

He filled his pipe and lit it, and they smoked for a while in silence.
The sun was setting, and from the great ring of coral came the sound
of the surf, continuous, dreamy and less loud to the ears of Floyd
than when he had first landed. In a little time he would not hear it;
or, rather, he would not notice; it was one of the conditions of life
here, a part of the strangeness of this strange place where perfect
peace dwelt forever ringed around by the murmur of the sea.

"See here," said Schumer, after a few minutes' silence; "what about
that money you said you had in the boat?"

"You mean the ship's money and papers?"

"Yes."

"Oh, they're in the boat still," said Floyd, rising up.

He went to the boat where she lay high and dry on the sand, and took
out the tin box.

He brought it back to where Schumer and Isbel were sitting by the
embers of the fire, and, taking his place on the sand beside them,
opened the box and took out the bag of sovereigns.

He undid the string and poured the contents of the bag onto the hard
sand of the beach.

There were two hundred and ten sovereigns--as they afterward
counted--and the moon, which had just pushed up its face over the
eastern reef edge, lit the pile which Floyd was now stirring with his
finger, while Schumer, who had drawn himself closer on his elbow,
looked on without a word. Isbel had drawn closer, too.

She had spoken very little as yet, and when she spoke it was a pleasure
to listen.

To attempt the reproduction of Polynesian speech is fatal, and the
authors who attempt it succeed in producing only a disgusting form of
pidgin English. It is impossible to reproduce the inflections, the
softness, the timbre, the soul of it. It is equally impossible to
reproduce the infantile French of the West Indies.

Isbel's language was the human equivalent of the language of the
soft-voiced birds; more than that, the missionary who had brought her
up had guarded her from the vile "savvee" and "um" and "allee same"
that foul the speech of the lower natives.

How much the missionary teaching had bent her mind to Eastern ideals or
influenced her nature it would be impossible to say. There was a great
deal of mystery about Isbel, centuries and centuries of the unknown and
unrealized gazing from those eyes so dark and unfathomable.

"Well," said Schumer, breaking the silence at last, "that's a decent
pile, and what are you going to do with it?"

"Well, it's Coxon's," said Floyd, "and now he's dead it will belong to
his next of kin; he hadn't a wife and family, so he told me, but he's
sure to have relations."

"Every man has who dies worth a cent," said Schumer. "Question is how
are you to find them, and whether they'll thank you if you do find
them, or swear that you've nailed half the boodle. You said the chap
that fired the schooner was Coxon's brother-in-law; well, it 'pears to
me you've suffered a good bit from his relations already, and deserve
some recompense. If I were you I'd put those papers in the fire and the
money in your pocket--however, that's your affair, not mine."

Floyd put papers and money back in the tin box.

"I'll put them in the tent for the present," said he; "there's lots of
time to think over the matter, and little chance enough to act in it."

"Well," said Schumer, "you can do as you please when the time
comes--and I wish it would come. I'm about sick of hanging here doing
nothing. I'm going to turn in. I sleep in the tent, and there's room
for you, too. Isbel has made a wigwam in the bush--the boat's all
right; she's high above the level of the tide."

Half an hour later the great moon, swinging above the island, showed
nothing but the embers of the fire, the trodden sand and the tent;
the human beings whom the Fates had brought together on this lost and
lonely spot had vanished, touched by sleep, just as men vanish from the
world when touched by Death.




CHAPTER III

THE SECRET OF THE LAGOON


Floyd awoke shortly after sunup.

The gulls were shouting and flying against the blaze of the sunrise,
fleeting like snowflakes across the blue sky beyond the reef opening,
and fishing at the pierheads.

When the great lagoon was emptying or filling to the tide, the water
at the pierheads went like a mill race; at slack water it lay gently
flowing to the swell of the outside sea as now.

Floyd came from under the tent, glanced round him, stretched himself,
and then crossed the reef to the outer beach, where the breakers were
coming in--the eternal breakers of the Pacific, leisurely, monotonous,
rhythmical, filling the air with their sound and spindrift, their ozone
and life.

Nothing could be more extraordinary than the contrast between the inner
beach and the outer beach of the island. You stood now facing a great
lake, calm and colored with all the blues and greens of tropical water
that varies in depth, and now, crossing the reef, you stood on the
shore of a thunderous sea.

Floyd stripped himself of his clothes and went into the surf. When he
had bathed and dried himself in the sun, he returned to the camp, where
he found Schumer lighting the fire and Isbel preparing breakfast. They
greeted him and he fell to to help.

He felt for the moment gay; the brightness, the sense of early morning,
the sea breeze and the crying gulls all raised his spirits to the
highest pitch.

Even Schumer, older and unenthusiastic to everything but trade, seemed
more cheerful than usual.

"We'll take the boat now," said he, when breakfast was finished,
"and prospect the lagoon. We want to get soundings, anyhow, in case
a ship should come and may want anchorage inside. This island isn't
charted--at least it's not on the British admiralty charts. I have the
_Tonga_ charts in the tent, and they make it all clear water from the
spot where the hurricane took us to three hundred miles south, and we
didn't run more than a hundred and fifty before we tripped over the
reef.

"South of the three-hundred-mile limit there's a group of small
islands, but they are not atolls. Now we're clear out of trade tracks
and unknown, though you may be sure whalers have been here, for there's
nowhere in the Pacific that whalers haven't pushed their noses, and
whalers are useless to us. We don't want any blubber tanks showing
their dirty hulls here; if they took us aboard they would drop us again
at any decent port till after, maybe, a three years' cruise, and then
they'd land us God knows where, crippled with work and tuppence in our
pockets. No, sir, if any dirty whalers show their faces here they'll
get bullets before they get us on board. Well, come on and help float
the boat."

They got the boat off, and in a few minutes were out in the lagoon,
Isbel forward, Floyd at the sculls, and Schumer in the stern sheets.

"There's breeze enough for the sail," said Schumer, when they were a
hundred yards or so out. "Shove the mast up, and we'll take it easy. I
want to have a full look at the floor of this lagoon, and take my time
over it."

Floyd took in the sculls, and, helped by Isbel, who seemed to have a
good knowledge of boat craft, got the mast stepped. Then they shook the
sail out, and the boat scarcely heeling to the gentle breeze, they made
straight across the stretch of water between them and the northernmost
beach.

The floor of the lagoon was not of equal depth; near the break in the
reef it was thirty-fathom water, shoaling swiftly to ten and five.
The whole western half of the lagoon was three fathoms and under. At
several places in this shallow zone the coral floor rose sharply and
nearly reached the surface. It was necessary, indeed, to unstep the
mast and take to the sculls, while Isbel, leaning over the bow, conned
them.

The water was so clear that the shadow of the boat showed hard on the
sand patches; looking down, the eye was held by a thousand things
beautiful and strange. Color dwells like a wizard in tropical and
subtropical waters; it seems inherent in those seas. Shells, fish, and
coral all are gorgeous, and more than gorgeous--exquisite. Here seem to
lie the remnants of a world more beautiful than any world we know--the
ruins of a paradise.

Coral alone presents to us a whole world of art; its colors and its
forms are infinite, and the artists of Paris or Tokyo make nothing
more beautiful than the million art treasures eternally being formed
in the depths and the shallows of the sea. Not only in the Pacific,
but the Atlantic, not only in the Atlantic, but the Indian Ocean, from
three-fathom water to a mile deep the construction of the beautiful is
eternally in progress, unviewed and almost unknown.

Floyd, resting on his oars now and then, looked over into the luminous
depths where flights of painted fish passed, their shadows following
them over the sand patches and brain coral.

Here and there were streaks of dead and rotten coral of a seaweed
brown, and here and there veritable gardens of color. Great shells
moved about on the sand patches, crabs scurried hither and thither,
globe-shaped jellyfish passed clear as glass, showing up for the
moment by reflected light, and then vanishing like ghosts. Schumer,
his battered old panama tilted back to protect his neck from the sun,
seemed absorbed in the things below; he spoke scarcely a word, unless
to give direction to the rower; Isbel, heedless of the sun, was equally
absorbed. Always on the lookout for the shoal water, she said nothing
except to give the direction "To the right," "To the left," and on the
heaving of a sudden rock up through the brilliant water, "Ah, stop
hard!"

The whole of this western part of the lagoon was very difficult water;
unless buoyed it would be utterly unnavigable by a ship even of small
tonnage.

Schumer, having explored the northernmost part of this zone, gave
directions to Floyd to pull farther south.

They had scarcely entered this area when Floyd's attention became
attracted to his companion. Schumer, leaning over the side and holding
the thwart with his left hand, suddenly became rigid. The muscles of
his neck stood out stiff, and his hand seemed trying to crush the wood
of the thwart.

Then he turned with a great cry:

"Shell! Acres of shell--pearls! We've struck it!" Floyd, as excited as
Schumer, drew in his sculls and looked over.

Fortune wears many cloaks, but her ugliest is formed of oysters. As far
as Floyd could see, to right, to left, ahead, and astern, the floor of
the lagoon was an oyster bed; all beauty of coral had vanished, and the
water seemed deserted even by the colored fish that haunted the deeper
parts of the lagoon.

"Row on," said Schumer; "let's see how far it stretches. It is the
biggest find I ever expected to strike. I fancied there might be shell,
I was on the lookout for shell, but it was only an idea of mine, and
now it's here, a fortune right in our hands."

Floyd got out the sculls and the boat moved south.

Schumer was right when he had said "acres of shell." An hour's
prospecting gave them the fact that the whole southern area of this the
western portion of the lagoon was shell. There were three main beds
with coral between, millions and millions of oysters, tons upon tons of
shell, and no man could say the possibilities in the way of pearls.

When they had finished prospecting they beached the boat, and taking
shelter from the sun under the shade of a little grove of artus and
pura trees, set to on the provisions they had brought with them.

Right across the lagoon from where they sat they could see their
camping place and the tent, the wreck, and the opening in the reef all
in the blue weather, and beyond the opening in the reef a glimpse of
the great Pacific and the fringe of pearl-white clouds on the horizon.

"Well," said Schumer, as they finished their meal, "the stuff is there
right enough, and it only comes now to the question of lifting it. We
have no labor, or none to speak of. Of course, we'll dredge and dive
so as to get as much samples as we can, but we want twenty men on the
work, and I don't see how we're to do it without letting others into
the secret. It's this way: Some time or another a vessel is sure to
happen along here and take us off; well, if it does we must keep mum.
Our object will be to get to Frisco or Sydney, and there get hold
of some chap with money and form a little syndicate. That'll water
the profits considerable; he'll want half at least. But there you
are--what's to be done?"

"Nothing," said Floyd; "we can't move without labor, and even that's no
use without a ship. To rig an expedition up at Frisco or Sydney will
cost a lot, and you may be sure any speculator who puts his money into
the thing will want to gobble most of the profits."

"Before we'd let him into the know we'd make him sign a paper," said
Schumer, "stating his acceptance of our terms, and then we'd make him
keep his bond with a pistol to his head. I don't trust the law alone,
but the law backed by a derringer makes a pretty good security."

As Schumer spoke, Floyd, who was watching his profile cut hard against
the sky, noticed for the first time the flatness of the cheek bones
and the relationship between the nose and chin.

Schumer was a very quiet man in his speech and manner, yet there was
about him an assured confidence speaking of great reserves of energy;
and now for the first time, as though the thought of being robbed of
his treasure had revealed it, there peeped out a new man; something of
the bird of prey showed in that profile, something of the desperado
found echo in his voice.

"Well," said Floyd, "there's no use in making plans till we have
something to go on. Let's settle on our immediate business; we'll have
to get oysters up and rot them in the sun to see if there's any show
of pearls, and it seems to me that we are very well placed for that.
Suppose a ship comes into the lagoon; well, she can't come within a
mile of this beach on account of the shoal water, and she won't be able
to see our work. I propose we stick to our old camp by the wreck, and
come here every day to work. We can leave Isbel on guard at the camp,
and if she sights a ship she can light a fire to give us warning."

"That's sense," replied Schumer, who had become himself again. "We can
rot the oysters on the weather side of the reef, and we'll set to work
on the business to-morrow morning. Let's get back now to the camp. I'm
going to fix up a dredge. Did I tell you I was a bit of an engineer?
I've had to be a bit of everything this time or that. I once edited a
paper and wrote it mostly, from the poetry column to the produce. I
guess I'd have written books if my lines had been cast in quiet waters.
Trade has always kept me going, and here where there's palm trees and
blue water enough trade turns up in oysters."

His eyes were fixed across the lagoon on the palms near the wreck; the
hawk-like look had vanished, and he murmured half to himself the verse
of Scheffel:

  "_Zwölf Palmen ragten am Meeresstrand
  Um eine alte Cisterne._"

It was "_Dun Tode Nah_" he was repeating, and Floyd, who did not know
the verse, knew the language.

"You speak German?" said he.

"My father was a German," replied Schumer. "I speak four languages and
half a dozen Polynesian dialects. One has to. Well, shall we get back?
There is nothing more to be done here for the present."




CHAPTER IV

SCHUMER'S STORY


They rowed back across the lagoon to the camp, and there Schumer set to
on the construction of his dredge.

Floyd had suddenly found an object of interest on the island almost as
absorbing as the oyster bed, and that object was Schumer.

Schumer had seemed to him at first a simple trader bound up in trade,
one of a class that swarms in the Pacific. Bound up in trade he
undoubtedly was, but there was all the difference in the world between
him and the others of his class that Floyd had come across in his
wanderings.

Perhaps the hardest thing in the world to put one's finger on is
personality, or the power that tells in a man's appearance, actions,
and speech. Its essence lies in complexity, and is born of all the
multitudinous attributes that form spirit.

Floyd watched Schumer working on the dredge, and wondered at his
ingenuity and power over metal and wood. He had but little material to
his hand--cask hoops and old ironwork from the wreck, and so on--yet he
made the most of it, and did not grumble. He explained the mechanism of
the thing when he had finished. He had set Isbel to work stitching the
canvas bag which was part of the dredge, and she sat mysterious as a
sphinx, working and listening to him as he talked.

Then, later on, as they smoked after supper and watched the stars break
out over the lagoon, Schumer went on talking, now of trade and the wild
work he had seen here and there in the Pacific.

He was vague, rarely giving the names of islands or places, contenting
himself with such wide terms as "It was an island south of the
Marshalls," or "It was down in the Solomons." It was down in the
Solomons that he had got the scar on his arm which he showed to Floyd.

"That's fifteen years old," said he; "it missed the artery or I
wouldn't be here now. I was only twenty then and new to the islands,
new to the sea also. I'd taken passage in a big schooner; two hundred
and fifty tons she was, captained by a Yankee skipper, and manned by
the biggest crowd of rascals that ever sailed out of Frisco to meet
perdition.

"We put in at a big island southeast of Manahiki. I went ashore with
the old man, the first mate, and two of the hands that could be
trusted. We were all well armed, and lucky for us we were.

"It was the bos'n who started the trouble--a big, black-bearded chap,
half Irish, quarter Scotch, with a tar brush somewhere in his family.
Not a good mixture by any means.

"We hadn't been ashore ten minutes when this chap took the schooner.
There were no preliminaries. She had a big brass swivel gun, and he
turned it on the beach and let fly. He'd loaded her with a bag of
bullets, and the first shot smashed the boat we'd landed in, smashed
the only canoes in the place, and tore up the sand as if it had been
plowed. Fortunately we had seen his game and scattered, but two natives
were killed, and the rest took to the bush.

"So did we, and under cover of the leaves we watched what was going on
in the schooner.

"They seemed pretty satisfied with themselves. They were sure against
attack; they had smashed our boat and the canoes, and they were pretty
certain we wouldn't try to board them by swimming, for the lagoon was
full of sharks. They brought up grog and took to dancing on deck. Their
object, of course, was to get away with the schooner and all the trade
on board, change her name, and make for some port on the South American
coast, and sell schooner and cargo and all. There was money aboard,
too--the ship's money and some coin of the old man's, and fifty British
sovereigns of my own hid in my bunk, though the beggars did not guess
that.

"Yes, they should have knocked the shackle off the anchor chain and
got to sea at once; they chose instead to drink and dance, celebrating
their victory. You see they did not know whom they were dealing with.

"From where we lay we could have picked them off like crows with our
rifles. Of course, that would have meant they would have gone below
and hid, and then at dark they'd have gone away. It would have sobered
them, too, and I did not want that.

"So we let them be, putting our trust in the bottle, and we set to and
made a raft with the help of some of the natives who were hiding in the
bush with us.

"There was a little creek hidden from the schooner by a cape of coconut
and pandanus trees, and we made the raft there, and a rotten raft it
was; but it served our purpose, and when dark came down we shoved off,
us four and two natives.

"The tide was with us; it was running out of the lagoon. The natives
had canoe paddles, but they scarcely used them. Not a soul was on deck;
they were all in the saloon drinking, and the noise was worse than a
tavern on the Barbary Coast of a Saturday night. They wouldn't have
heard us coming alongside if we had come blowing trumpets--which we
didn't."

Schumer paused to refill and light his pipe. The lagoon was now a sheet
of stars, and not a sound came but the murmur of the reef and the
splash of a fish jumping in the lagoon.

"We came alongside, and in a minute we were over the rail--she had a
low freeboard--every man of us. We didn't trouble about the raft, and
she went out to sea on the tide.

"The saloon hatch was off, and there they were all crowded like bees
in a bottle fighting and playing cards and drinking and smoking, and
there as they sat we began to plug them with our Winchesters. We got
six before the smoke of the firing hid them, and then we fired into
the smoke and stood by to down them as they came up the companionway.
They were plucky, but mad with drink, and they had no arms to speak of.
One of them had a bottle in his hand, the only thing he could find to
fight with; when he tumbled over into the lee scuppers he still held it
unbroken, and I guess he went before his Maker with it like that.

"We settled them all with the exception of the bos'n. He skulked
below, and I went down to find him. The saloon was clear of smoke and
the swinging lamp was burning; dead men were lying everywhere, but no
bos'n. He'd taken refuge in the old man's cabin and had barricaded
the door, so that I couldn't kick it in--only managed to crack the
paneling; so I began firing through it with my revolver, and then out
he came with two bullets in him and a sheath knife in his hand.

"He gave me this cut before we had done with one another.

"The upshot was that every man of them was given his dose, and we took
the schooner out of the lagoon, us four, with four Kanakas who joined
the ship, and we had good luck all the rest of the voyage, though my
arm inflamed so that I nearly lost it.

"So you see a trader's life out here is not all trading; one has to
fight sometimes for what one gets, and to keep what one gets."

Floyd could not help thinking that Schumer's part in the recapture of
the schooner had been more than he had stated.

"What's made you take to trading out here?" he asked. "You're a sailor,
aren't you? At least I made the guess yesterday that you were a sailor
first and a trader after."

"Yes, I began as a sailor. I served my two years before these new
topsail yards made reefing child's work. I served in a Hamburg ship.
What made me a trader? Well, I suppose it was the common sense that
made me give up sailoring. I do not like hard manual labor. As I
told you before, it was on the cards that I might have cast my lines
in the newspaper world. Books interest me, written books; the world
interested me, and I might have been the correspondent of newspapers.
I am a fair linguist, and I can write simple English and picture fairly
well what I see in words; yet I am a trader. I do not know why I am a
trader in the least. It is the way of life that has come to me."

He ceased, and they sat in silence for a moment.

Floyd, looking round, saw that Isbel had vanished; she had slipped off
to bed somewhere in the bush--slipped off like an animal. It was her
characteristic that she was one of the shipwrecked party, yet remained
apart. She helped in cooking and boat sailing and in other ways;
but she lived her own life as an animal lives it, thinking her own
thoughts, keeping her own counsel, speaking little. There was nothing
about her of the childish and the light-hearted that stamps so many
Polynesians, which is not to say that she was gloomy or too old for
her years. She was just a creature apart, and had always the air of a
looker-on at a game in which she helped, but which did not particularly
interest her.

"The girl's gone," said Floyd.

Schumer looked round.

"Crept off to sleep; she'll sleep anywhere--in a tree or in the bush.
I can't make out Kanakas. I've read a lot of stuff written about them,
but there's always something behind that no one can get at. They
are right down good in a lot of ways, and right down bad in others.
Missionaries civilize them and varnish them over, but there's always
the Kanaka underneath; they make Christians of them, but it's only on
the outside. Look at that girl--she's only a child, of course, but a
missionary has had the handling of her, and in the time we've been here
she has turned right in on herself and gone back to her people, so
to speak. She's not bad, but she's a savage, and nothing will make a
savage anything else than a savage, except, maybe, on the outside."

"She seems pretty faithful and helps us all she can," said Floyd.

"Oh, she's not bad," yawned Schumer; "and she's a good deal of use in
her way, and she's company of a sort, same as a dog or a cat. Well, I'm
going to turn in."

He rose up and stretched himself, and looked at the starlit lagoon.

"It's funny to think there's maybe a fortune in pearls under all that,"
said he, "no knowing--but it will take some getting."

"We'll get it if it's there," said Floyd.




CHAPTER V

DREDGING


They were up at dawn, and the fire was crackling and the coffee heating
before the sun had fully shown itself over the eastern reef line.

Schumer had been able to salve cooking utensils and some unbroken
crockery ware from the _Tonga_, to say nothing of knives and forks and
spoons.

It seems a small matter, but a knife and a fork make all the difference
when one comes to food, even on an island of the Pacific--a plate, too.

Condemned to eat with one's fingers and to share a knife in common, one
feeds, but one does not eat.

There was condensed milk for the coffee, ship's bread and salt pork
fried over the fire. Isbel had collected some plantains; they went into
the frying pan to help the pork. She had also gathered some drupes from
a pandanus tree growing near the wreck, and served them on a big leaf.

"There's a whole lot of seeds aboard somewhere," said Schumer, as they
breakfasted; "onions and carrots and so on; I must hunt for them, and
when we have time I'll see how they grow here. You can grow anything on
these islands. The soil's the best in the world; maybe because of the
gull guano. We'll want all the native-grown food we can get here, if
things turn out as I expect, for we'll have to feed the labor we bring,
and natives aren't happy without the stuff they are used to. Corned
beef and spuds are all very well in their way, but it's breadfruit and
taro and plantains that are the stand-by. Fortunately there seems lots.
You see all that dark-green stuff growing over there straight across
the lagoon--that's breadfruit; big trees, too, and the coconuts aren't
bad.

"When we get the labor we'll have a main camp over by the fishing
ground. I've been thinking it all out. There's no natural water there,
but I noticed yesterday a big rain pond in the coral; it must have
been cut out by natives some time or another. The funny thing about
these ponds is that the water is saltish at high tides, but gets fresh
with the ebb. In some of the islands the natives stock them with fish,
salt-water fish swimming in fresh.

"Then we have the fishing to fall back on, and the lagoon is full. Yes,
we are not badly placed as things go."

They placed the dredge on board the boat and some food for the midday
meal, and pushed off, leaving Isbel behind to look after the camp and
keep an eye out for ships. At the sight of a sail anywhere on the sea
she was to light the fire and make a smoke with green wood, and she
had a splendid lookout post, for the deck of the _Tonga_, onto which
she could easily climb, gave a complete view of the horizon from all
directions.

Then they rowed off, leaving her watching them, a solitary figure on
the beach.

"Seems she'll be a bit lonely," said Floyd.

"Not she," replied Schumer; "she'll be happy enough alone, and she has
lots to do between washing up and keeping a lookout. Kanakas are never
lonely; it's a disease of civilization."

"You look upon these people as if they were animals," said Floyd.

"Which they are," replied Schumer--"animals dressed in human skin."

Floyd said nothing. He was not a psychologist or a philosopher, but
a man of action; yet he gauged something of the strange make-up of
Schumer's mind. Here was a man of keen intelligence, a quoter of
Scheffel, an appreciator of beauty, apparently a kindly individual,
but in some respects apparently hard beyond belief, and in others
apparently blind.

Floyd had some knowledge of the Polynesian natives, he was gaining some
knowledge of Schumer, and he was to gain more knowledge of both--of the
civilized man and the savage and their respective worth.

They got to work in two-fathom water on the northern edge of the great
bed. They stripped for the business. Both men were good swimmers and
expert divers, and the dredge did its work fairly well. They agreed
to take the diving business in half-hour tricks, one remaining in the
boat with a view to possible sharks, though sharks were scarcely to be
feared in that part of the lagoon, and to keep the boat moving when the
dredge was in operation.

Floyd was the first to go down. At a depth of twelve feet it was as
bright almost as at the surface. The water seemed to hold light in
solution; glancing up, the white-painted boat floating like a balloon
above him showed a tinge of rose; passing scraps of focus were all
spangled and sparkled over as though powdered with jewel dust; his arm,
newly immersed, was diamonded by tiny beads of air. In this silent,
brilliant world of crystal and color one only wanted gills to find life
in perfection and fairyland in material form.

There were few fish here, but occasionally a colored phantom would
slow up, pause, and whisk off, fry would pass like a flight of silver
needles, and great jellyfish quartered like melons and absolutely
invisible till glimpsed by reflected light.

All these things he noticed in his first submersion; after that the
labor of the business prevented him from noticing anything much except
the work on hand, cruel and murderously hard work to the man unused
to it. The dredge was almost useless at first; it had to be taken up
and altered, then, as it was dragged along, he followed it, helping
it, picking up loose oysters and putting them in the bag. He could
only work for less than half a minute at a time, coming up for a two
minutes' breathing spell, and as he worked he could feel now and then
what seemed a warm wind trying to blow him aside as the wind blows
thistledown. It was the swell of the incoming tide.

They had arranged to work in half-hour tricks, but they found this
absolutely impossible; before the end of the first twenty minutes Floyd
confessed himself beaten and Schumer took his place.

An hour before noon they knocked off. They had taken a large quantity
of oysters, despite the limited means at their disposal, enough to sink
the boat a strake or two and give them an hour's work in unloading and
spreading their catch on the coral on the windward side of the reef.

Then they took three hours' rest under the shade of the trees. At
sundown they had completed their day's work, and they felt as though
they had been laboring for fifty years.

They had overdone it.

Though they had dived as little as possible during the second half of
the day's work, using the dredge as much as they could, the work had
nearly broken them, owing to the sudden and tremendous strain put on
their lungs.

Schumer recognized the reason of their exhaustion.

"We should have broken ourselves to it by degrees," said he--"done a
couple of hours' work instead of a whole day's. We are fools. We didn't
want to strip the lagoon; we were only after a sample, and could have
taken a week over it. Well, we can take things easy to-morrow."

They rowed back to the camp and found Isbel waiting for them, and
supper.

They had come back in low spirits, but after supper and a cup of coffee
the surprising thing happened--their spirits jumped up as though under
the influence of alcohol. Prolonged strain in diving produces these
results--the tissues that have been starved or partly starved of oxygen
reabsorb it with renewed vigor.

They lay on the sand and smoked and talked, and Floyd built castles and
furnished them with his prospective fortune.

"Suppose," said he, "we strike it rich--very rich--what may we net out
of this?"

"It all depends," said Schumer, "if this is a real pearl lagoon;
anything up to a hundred thousand, and maybe more. Pearls are a
disease, and the disease is more prevalent in some waters than others.
I don't know why, no one does. It may be the temperature or the stuff
the water holds in solution, it may be the breed of the oyster; but
there you have it. Every oyster under the sun is a pearl oyster, at
least may be capable of growing pearls. I found a pearl once in an
oyster which I was eating in a restaurant in Hamburg. It wasn't a big
pearl, but it was a pearl. I sold it for thirty marks. But one thing
is sure, it's only in tropical and subtropical waters that you find
pearls of any account or to any account. It's only in the tropics and
subtropics you find color and stuff that's rich and worth having. The
north--pah! What does it give us? Iron and tin, wood, copper. It's the
south where the gold is, where the pearls are. Why, the very earth
in the south hides color and riches! Where are the diamond mines? In
Africa and Brazil. The ruby and emerald mines? In Burma and Brazil and
India. The gold? California and Africa. The silver? Peru. Look at the
birds; there's not a colored bird in the north that hasn't come from
the south; look at the shells and the corals, and the flowers and the
people; look at the sun. No, the south holds everything worth having
or seeing. You ask me what I would do if I were rich? Well, I would
not go north, or only for a while. I'd stay in the south, fix my home
somewhere not too close to the equator, take an island in these seas,
and have it for my own."

"Can you buy islands?"

"You can buy land; one might buy a small island from some of the
governments, or rent it; but I'd sooner have the most land in a big
island than the whole of a little one. Once you have got your grip on
land you have power. Nothing else gives you so much power; funny,
that, isn't it? Money, you would say, gives power. It only gives the
power to buy or to meddle in other people's affairs through paid
agents. If you have got your grip on the earth, and the things that
come out of it, and the people who live on it, you have power; and
power is the only thing worth having in the world."

"Good Lord!" said Floyd. "There's a lot of things I'd sooner have."

"And what things may those be?"

"Well, I want to have a good time and see other people having a good
time. I want to travel, not as the mate of an old hooker like the
_Cormorant_, but as a man with money in his pocket and time to look
around him. I want to be able to buy things. I want to dress decently
and to marry some time or another and settle down. I'm fond of horses,
though I've never had the chance to own one; and I'm fond of cricket,
though I've never touched a bat for years. I'm fond of a jolly good
dinner, and I'm fond of a good cigar. To get all those things one wants
money."

"And all those things come to you if you have power," said Schumer.
"It implies everything material, and much more. It's the sense of it,
the feeling 'I am the stronger man,' that gives the mind freedom and
ease to enjoy what money can bring. You are entirely English; you want
enjoyment and luxury without foundation of strength."

"Oh, good heavens!" said Floyd, "I think we have a pretty solid
foundation of strength; we own half the earth, and we hold it--why?
Simply because we live and let live. We don't try to grind people down
with what you call power. We give them power, liberty, whatever you
like to call it. Now you are a man who has traveled, and so am I. Can
you tell me any spot on earth that a man may be really free in that's
not under the Union Jack or the Stars and Stripes? Take the German
colonies, the Dutch; haven't you always some pesky official shoving
his nose into your affairs? Take the very port officers and customs,
and it's the same all through the country as well as on the coast.
You can't breathe in these places the same as you can where there's
a decent English or American administration. I've heard foreigners
wondering how it is we hold India--all those hundreds of millions of
natives under the rule of a few thousand white men. As a matter of
fact, we don't hold it at all; it holds itself. A native in Bombay is
as free as a duke in Piccadilly; that's our secret."

Schumer laughed.

"And at any moment," said he, "those very free natives are ready to
rise in their hundreds of millions and cut your throats."

"I don't think so," said Floyd. "Men don't cut the throats of their
best friends."

Schumer yawned.

To argue with Schumer was like pressing against India rubber--the
pressure left no impression.

They talked for a while longer on indifferent subjects, and then turned
in under the shelter of the tent.

The night was almost windless, and the great southern stars stood
out like jewels crusting the whole dome of the sky from sea edge to
sea edge. The Milky Way, like a vast band of white smoke cut by the
terrific pit of a coal sack, Canopus, and the Cross, filled the world
with the mystery of starlight.

Away out on the weather side of the reef near the wreck, and clear in
the starlight against the coral, was seated a figure. It was Isbel.
She had not yet turned into whatever haunt she had in the bush, and
with her knees drawn up and clasped by her hands she was watching the
regular fall of the breakers.

The child seemed under the spell of the vast sea, an atom in face of
the infinite.




CHAPTER VI

RISK OF WAR


"You can't get pearls from oysters till the oysters are rotten," said
Schumer next morning, as they sat after breakfast consulting on the
day's work. "Of course, you could take every individual fresh oyster
and hunt under its beard; but you know how an oyster sticks to its
shell even after it is opened, and you can fancy the work it would
be. Once they are decayed they are mushy, and the work is easy though
it's not pleasant. But it's surprising how quick you get used to it.
We worked pretty hard yesterday, and I propose to take it easy this
morning, and then a bit later on I want to have a regular overhaul of
the saloon and trade room of the old _Tonga_. We have cleared the way
pretty well, but I've been so busy catching stores in the bush that
I've never had time for an overhaul. You see there was only Isbel and
me to do the job. I expect the oysters we laid out yesterday will be
fit to work on to-morrow."

"You've done this pearl business before," said Floyd.

Schumer laughed.

"I have helped in pearling, if that's what you mean, but I have never
had any luck. I once had my hand on a fortune in pearls, but it did not
come off.

"There was a French island in these seas, no matter where--it wasn't
a thousand miles from the Marquesas. It was a double lagoon island,
shaped like an hourglass; no use to look at, not enough trees to give
any amount of copra. It had done a little business in sandalwood in
the old days, but that was all gone. But the place wasn't deserted.
There was an old Frenchman in charge; he had rented it under the French
government, and he lived there with his two sons, and seemed happy
enough, though doing next to no trade.

"I was in the outer lagoon twice as supercargo of a trading schooner;
once we put in for water, and the second time we called on the chance
of picking up a little copra. Lefarge was the old man's name, and he
was a great fisherman; said he lived there mostly for the fishing and
to have an easy life.

"Yet somehow he struck me as a man who would not be content to spend
his time fishing and sitting in the sun, and his two boys struck me the
same.

"When I wanted to explore the island and get round by the reef to the
main lagoon he said that was forbidden, the natives held it taboo to
white men, and so on.

"Then I began to suspect, and the only one thing I could suspect was
shell, and maybe pearls.

"The more I thought of it the more sure I was; but, of course, I could
do nothing; the place was his, and whatever it held, and we were
peaceful traders, not pirates. So, when we had loaded with all the
copra he could give us, out we put, wishing him good health and good
luck in his fishing.

"Two days from the island we met a mail brigantine, and she signaled
us that war had been declared between France and Germany, and our
captain--Max Schuster was his name--began to swear, for we were bound
for the Marquesas, which are French, and we'd have to alter our course
and lose consignments and trade, and he sat down on a mooring bit, and
cursed war and the French till I took him by the arm and led him down
the saloon and explained what was in my mind.

"I told him of my suspicions about the island, and he pricked up his
ears. Then, when I had been talking to him about ten minutes and
explaining and arguing, he suddenly took fire.

"It's surprising how a dull man will refuse to be convinced--_won't_
see, till all at once, when he does see, he'll rush at what you show
him harder than the best.

"Schuster, when he saw fully the advantage of his position, little
risk, and everything to gain, rushed up on deck. In less than five
minutes the schooner was showing her tail to the Marquesas and making a
long board for the island.

"Our crew were mostly Swedes, Kanakas, and an Irishman, and when they
heard the news that Schuster had to tell them they were his to a man.
The French were not much in favor just then; they had Noumea tacked
on to their name, and the ordinary sailor loves a bit of a fight or
any break in the monotony of sea life. We had plenty of trade rifles,
Albinis--not the best sort of rifle, but good enough for us--and plenty
of ammunition.

"We lifted the island at dawn on the second day, and were anchored in
the lagoon a few hours later.

"Old Lefarge was on the beach tinkering a canoe. He didn't seem
surprised to see us come in with the German flag flying at the peak,
nor did his sons, who came out of the frame house set back among the
bushes. They thought we had sickness or something on board, for they
made no offer to put out to us. We lowered a boat on the port side,
which was the side away from the beach, and got our men in and the
rifles, and then rowed ashore.

"When they saw us landing they took fright, but our men covered them
with their rifles, and Schuster and I came up to the old man and his
sons and told them that war was declared, and that they were prisoners.

"They could do nothing, and they just gave in. We had them taken on
board the schooner, and then we went to the frame house, and there,
sure enough, in a big safe, were the pearls. We had searched the
prisoners and taken their keys from them. The key of the safe was among
them, and we opened it easily. There were twenty thousand pounds' worth
of pearls, so we judged.

"Schuster was a man who always held tight by the law. I pointed out to
him that since we were at war with France all French property belonged
to us by rights, and that the best thing we could do was to land the
prisoners and take the pearls. We did not want prisoners. I pointed
out to him, also, that we were acting in the nature of privateers, but
without a letter of marque, and that consequently our prize would go to
the government, and we would get nothing.

"I pointed out that since this was French property it would be much
better just to take it and be thankful, and say nothing. He said that
would be piracy."

"So it would," said Floyd.

"Well, maybe it would; but what is war if not piracy legalized? You
have a letter of marque and you are a privateer, you have none and you
are a pirate."

"But even privateering has ceased," objected Floyd.

"Well," said Schumer, "if it has it ought to be renewed in war time;
it breeds fine men, as you English ought to know, and it's every
bit as legitimate as fighting behind naval guns. However, Schuster
thought different about our case. He said he would take the whole lot,
prisoners and pearls, to the nearest German island, and claim a share
of the proceeds, and be within the law.

"So off we set, and it took us nearly three weeks to reach the island
we were in search of, between head winds and calms. When we got there
it was getting on for night, so we held off and on till morning, and
when the pilot came aboard we gave him news of the war, and several
canoes that had put out shot back to land with it; so that when we
entered the harbor the place was decked with flags, and we were cheered
right from the harbor mouth to the quay."

Schumer paused for a light, and went on:

"We landed our prisoners and the pearls, and the governor had laid a
big spread for us, baked pig and lager beer, and so on, and Schuster
was in the middle of a speech when the sound of a gun brought us all
out on the beach, and there, entering the harbor, was the German
cruiser of the station.

"The captain landed and asked us what we were doing with the flags, and
when we explained he told us that there was no war, only a lying rumor.
He had the latest European news from San Francisco, and he gave it to
us.

"It was worth going through the whole of that business to see
Schuster's face. He said nothing, and the governor said nothing, and
it was fortunate they held their tongues, for the cruiser only waited
four hours to water and put off again.

"When she had gone the governor bundled old Lefarge and his sons on
board our schooner and the pearls, and he gave us orders to take them
back to their island and dump them there, and he sent an armed guard
to see that it was done. He judged, and judged rightly, that Lefarge
would make no trouble afterward, simply because he would not want to
advertise the existence of his island. He made them a present of a few
cases of California champagne and some cigars, and old Lefarge was so
glad to be out of the business and get back his pearls that he insisted
on opening the champagne, and Schuster brought out some trade gin, and
they all got drunk.

"There was a big moon that night, and they enjoyed themselves, Lefarge
singing 'Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,' and the governor the
'Marseillaise.'

"Then they started fighting, and then they got sick.

"Men are strange things, once they let themselves go, and they are all
pretty much alike when they are drunk."

"You took them back to their island?" said Floyd.

"Yes, and then we had to return and bring back the armed guard.
Schuster lost nearly two months over the business, to say nothing of
the provisions and loss of trade. He said he wanted to sink the mail
brigantine that had given us the lie; but you can't sink a ship by
wanting to. Well, let's get to work."

They rose up and crossed the coral to the wreck. She was lying at a
slant that made it just possible to walk her decks without holding on
to anything; her copper was already dull green, and the barnacles,
long dead, showed up like bosses on the copper green like it, as
though the verdigris had invaded them. The sun had boiled out the pitch
of the planking, and the decks were warping, the planks bursting up
from the dowels.

The great "dunch" she had received from the coral in beaching
had shaken everything loose; the bowsprit had sprung up from the
knightheads; all forward of the great breach in her side the planking
was loosened from the ribs, and only wanted another storm to break away
and give the sea a clean sweep of the interior of the hull.

But leaving aside the ravages of the sea, the work of ruin was going
steadily on under the influence of weather and sun. A ship out of water
is dead, and death means corruption. On the reefs and beaches of the
ocean you will see wrecks, carcasses of ships, skeletons with the blue
sky showing through their ribs. They have been eaten by the weather
more than by the sea.

They reached the deck of the _Tonga_, and made their way down the
companionway to the main cabin.

There was plenty of light through the broken sides of the vessel, and
the sunshine from the outside world showed up the interior and was
reflected by the varnished pine paneling and by a strip of mirror still
absolutely intact. The table in the center was still standing, and
above it the swinging lamp all askew, an empty bird cage lay in one
corner, and all sorts of raffle littered the floor.

The captain and chief mate's cabin lay aft, and Schumer, opening the
doors and fixing them so, began a thorough overhaul of the contents.
He had already salved the ship's money and papers, the nautical
instruments, charts, and books; what remained was mostly private
property, and there was not very much of it. Some clothes, underwear,
and boots and shoes made up the pile, together with native curios,
cheap novels, some writing materials, and two revolvers with ammunition.

"It'll all come in handy some time or another," said Schumer, "and I
propose that we stuff the lot back into the old man's cabin; they'll be
as safe there as anywhere, unless another big storm comes and makes a
clean sweep of everything. Now let's have another go at the cargo."

They had no need to enter the hold by the main hatch. The damaged side
gave them ample means of entry. The confusion was appalling.

Schumer had already salved a quantity of canned stuff. Unable to move
the boxes and crates, he had broken them open with an ax and removed
the contents piecemeal; but, having only Isbel to help, and no very
urgent incentive to the work, he had done comparatively little. Now,
with the prospect of remaining on the island and the necessity of
feeding possible labor when the time came for working the lagoon, it
was a different matter.

Floyd, however, did not see it in the same light as Schumer, and when,
after an hour's work carrying stuff across the coral, they knocked off
for a rest, he put his ideas before the other.

"Look here," said he, "it's all very well breaking our backs over this
business, but we haven't got the labor to feed yet; we'll have to go
to Sydney or 'Frisco to get the money raised, and it may be six months
after we are taken from here before we can get back, maybe longer.
Then the chap that finances this business will do the provisioning of
the expedition. I don't see the point in harvesting this stuff under
the trees, especially as it's safe enough in the wreck."

"Now, see here," said Schumer, "if you are not prepared for everything
in this world you never get anywhere. You say the stuff is safe enough
on the wreck; I say it isn't. First, there's the heat of the sun, which
doesn't improve it. Secondly, there's the chance of a hurricane making
a clean sweep of everything. The tail end of a big storm landed her
where she is; the front end of another may finish her. You say that it
may take us six months or more before we can start on our business--who
knows? Who knows that a likely ship may not call here with some man in
charge of her who would join us in the venture? I would sooner have
a decent shipowner in it than some American or Australian financier.
You never know what may occur, and here is a lot of stuff that may
save the situation when the time comes. No, we have got to get it
safe, and get it safe we will, not only provisions, but as much of the
trade as we can manage. It's all money, and you can do nothing without
money, either in these seas or in Europe. So we'll just stick to this
business, and we'll cover the cached lots over with sailcloth--we
have lots of that. We had better stick to it for a week right on and
get it over. I've been thinking about it ever since this morning, and
something tells me that we'd be fools to bother about the lagoon, which
is safe as a bank, while the stuff that will help to raid that bank is
in danger."

"Suppose there are no pearls in those oysters of any account?"

"There's always the shell," replied Schumer, "and there are sure to be
pearls. You are of the disbelieving sort."

"Not a bit--only--well, perhaps you are right. I'm not going to shirk
any work that may be useful--and when do you propose to examine those
oysters we fetched up yesterday?"

"I'll leave them a week," said Schumer; "the longer they are left the
more rotten they'll be, and the easier to work. Besides, if we found
no pearls, it would take the heart out of us, and, more than that,
the hope of finding pearls when we do go will put the heart into us.
Nothing is better to make one work than a pleasant prospect not quite
assured in front of one. It's the gambling instinct--a big instinct."

Floyd laughed. There was something about the man Schumer that held
him more and more and compelled belief and the admiration that all
men have for strength and foresight. Schumer did a lot of thinking as
well as working. He had said nothing up to this moment of abandoning
the oyster business for a week and putting all their energies into
the salving of provisions and trade--he had been thinking out the
whole plan in silence. He disliked the labor of the salvage business
as much as Floyd, but he imposed it on himself as means to a distant
end, and Floyd, though he did not see the end in the same light as his
companion, was not the man to hold back when another was working.

"I am with you," said he. "It will give us exercise, anyhow, and it's
better than diving. Come on and let's get at it."

He revenged himself by outvying Schumer in energy. They worked stripped
to the waist.

They had set themselves a herculean task. It was not only a question
of conveying small goods piecemeal in extemporized baskets; it was a
business also of carrying heavy stuff, bolts of cotton, and so forth
that could not be divided up.

There was not only the conveying to be done, but the storing. In this
nature helped them. The reef, or, rather, the island that formed this
part of the atoll had a big sink in it amid the grove at the back of
their encampment. Schumer thought that in ancient days natives must
have made this hollow by artificial means for some reason or other,
possibly as a big rain pond, though that supposition seemed negatived
by the existence of the natural well that lay in the western border
of the grove. However, it had been formed there. It was almost a pit,
a hundred yards long, shelving toward the ends and densely protected
by trees to seaward. Schumer calculated that owing to this density of
vegetation and the fact of the ends having drainage into the lagoon,
this trench would not fill up, let the rain come heavy as it might. On
the fact that the waves from the heaviest sea could not reach it he was
assured by the configuration of the outside reef.

He had fixed on a week's work, and at the end of that time, though they
had done much, they had not done all; still, he seemed satisfied, as
well he might be.

They had cached all the provisions, they had salved a fair portion of
the perishable trade, and covered this portion of the salvage with
sailcloth, and of all their work this was the most laborious and
trying. They had removed the rifles, fifty in number, from their cases,
and stored them with the ammunition in a separate cache; they had
four navy revolvers of the Colt type, and these with the ammunition
for them they kept in the tent. Last, but not least, there was the
liquor--cases of trade gin, and a few cases of wine.

Schumer did not bother to cache these--he dealt with them in another
fashion.

"It's waste of money," said he, "but I have been thinking it out. This
square face is no use to man or brute; it's only good to sell, and we
have no customers for it, and don't want them. It's dangerous stuff to
have about. The wine is different; there's not much of it, and it may
turn in useful, but the gin has to go."

He opened the cases, and they smashed the bottles, heaving them on
to the raw coral beyond the wreck, so that the glass might not be in
the way. The air stank with the fumes of the filthy stuff while the
smashing went on. Isbel helped, the instinct for destruction that lies
in human nature, and especially in children, seemed to have wakened up
in her to its full.

She laughed over the work. Floyd had never seen her laugh before,
and as he looked at her shining eyes and flashing teeth it seemed to
him that despite all the labors of the missionary here was an atom
of fighting and destructive force, useful for good or evil, and only
waiting on events for its development.




CHAPTER VII

THE BLACK PEARL


The next morning they started for the oyster ground. There had been
strong winds blowing for the last week and big seas tumbling along the
reef, the spray finding the oysters that they had put out on the coral,
otherwise they might not only have rotted, but dried up. As it was,
they were just in the prime of their horribleness.

"Good heavens!" said Floyd, as they set to work. "This is worse than
salving cargo--a jolly sight worse even than diving."

"You'll get used to it," said Schumer, "and if it's any comfort to you
to know it's worse for me than you, for I have an olfactory sense more
acute than ordinary. Get more to windward of your work. You ought to
know that as a sailor."

"Upon my word!" said Floyd, "these things must have half stunned me;
they are enough to make one forget one's instincts, even. Go ahead, I
won't complain."

He got to windward, and the stiff breeze helped matters considerably.
Schumer had brought a piece of sailcloth, also a canvas bucket, which
they filled as required from a reef pool near by.

Every shell was searched and washed over the canvas, Schumer, with the
eye and hand of an expert, doing the manipulation while Floyd poured
the water in trickles as required.

Dozen by dozen the shells were explored, drained of their mushy
contents, and flung away. Not a pearl showed.

Floyd forgot everything in the excitement of the moment. He had no
longer a sense of smell, and then, as the heap of shells steadily grew
without sign or symptom of what they were in search of, his spirits
fell.

"Pour away," said Schumer; "this is only the beginning of the business;
there's no knowing what is to come. Ah, here's something!"

He stood up, poured some water into the palm of his hand, examined what
was in his palm, and then held out his dripping hand to Floyd.

In the palm lay a small black stone about the size of a pea.

"What is it?" asked Floyd.

Schumer laughed.

"Only a black pearl, worth maybe a hundred dollars. But it's fortune,
all the same. We have struck it! A hundred dollars for half an hour's
work for two men. It's good!"

He sat down on the coral, while Floyd, now deeply excited, took his
seat beside him. The gulls cried and wheeled overhead, and the sun
burned on the blue sea and the foam of the reef, and the wind blew the
spray in their faces as they sat handing their treasure from one to the
other, examining it and gloating over it.

Washed and dried now, its luster appeared. It was a perfect black
pearl, not large, but of splendid quality, globular and slightly
flattened on one side.

"It's worth more even than I thought at first," said Schumer. "It's a
beauty. Well, we mustn't chuckle too soon; it may be the only pearl in
the lagoon, though I don't think so. And the shell is of fine quality;
all the indications are good."

"I thought all pearls were white," said Floyd. "Of course, I know
nothing about them, and the only ones I have seen were in shop windows."

"And most likely false, at that," said Schumer. "No. Pearls are not all
white. I don't know what makes the color in them, but there it is. Some
are black like this, and a few are pink, and I've seen some gray--they
aren't much good. Pink are the rarest, then come black, then white.
Well, I'll put this fellow in my match box, and now let's get to work
again."

He put the pearl in the match box and the box in the pocket of his
coat, which he had taken off. Then, having placed a lump of coral on
the coat to prevent any chance of the wind blowing it about, they
returned to work.

They worked right through the whole take of shell, and the sun was
setting when they had finished. The result was triumphant.

Twelve pearls was the harvest, including the black. Four of these were
quite inconsiderable, but of good quality; four more, though larger,
were not of good shape or quality, but there were three white beauties.
The largest, Schumer estimated at a thousand dollars and over, the next
largest at less than a thousand, and the third at five hundred.

There were also some seed pearls, tiny things like nits' eggs.

"If the whole lagoon pays up like that," said Floyd, "we'll be rich ten
times over."

Schumer shook his head.

"We can't tell. Nothing is more uncertain than pearling. We are sure
to find blank streaks, and it's possible we may have just struck the
richest corner. In a lagoon like this a lot depends on the different
temperatures, the depth, and the rush of the currents. But we've done
well, and a lot better than I expected."

They set off back across the lagoon to their camping place, and the
day's take was placed in the box with the ship's money.

Schumer had suggested to Floyd that the money of the _Cormorant_ should
be placed with that of the _Tonga_ in the same box, and Floyd had
agreed, seeing the wisdom of centralizing their treasure so that in
eventualities it might be more easily protected.

Together with the pearls the hoard made now a very respectable show,
though Floyd had pointed out that the _Cormorant_ money, being Coxon's,
must not be counted in their mutual assets. Schumer had agreed, though
evidently with reservations. The money of the _Tonga_ was a different
matter; he seemed to look on it as his own. Never once did he refer
to it in other terms, nor had he told Floyd the name of the _Tonga's_
skipper.

Floyd did not press the point--it was a matter entirely to do with
Schumer.




CHAPTER VIII

THE LAST OF THE WRECK


That night, as they sat by the camp fire they noticed a great confusion
among the gulls.

They seemed quarreling all along the western side of the reef. The
voice of the gulls was one of the familiar sounds of the island, but
not after dark. To-night they were clamorous.

They broke out again before dawn, and Floyd, listening, noticed a new
note in their voices. They seemed not quarreling one with another, but
against some common enemy. Then the sound died away little by little,
and when he came out of the tent there was not a gull to be seen near
the reef opening, where as a rule they congregated in numbers.

The sunrise was clouded, and the sun did not strike the sea till half
an hour later than his ordinary time. The wind that had been blowing so
strongly yesterday had died away, yet the boom of the surf on the reef
was louder than on the day before.

Floyd crossed the reef close to the wreck and looked seaward.

A glacial calm held the sea, a calm underrun by a tremendous swell. A
long, tremendous swell, an infinite heaving of the very depths of the
ocean finding expression here in acre-wide undulations, solemn, slow
to the eye, rhythmical and sonorous.

The beating of the breakers seemed ruled by a metronome.

There was no little wave and big wave, no hesitation of the sea. The
breakers were equidistant and equal in volume, and their pace was set
to the same funeral march.

Schumer came out of the tent, and, catching sight of Floyd, walked
toward him.

"There must be a lot of damp or electricity or something in the air,"
said he. "I feel like a rag."

"Look at the sea," said Floyd; "there has been a big storm somewhere,
if I am not greatly mistaken."

Schumer stood looking at the sea.

The sun seemed bright as ever, yet the water did not respond to his
light; it had at once a surface brilliancy and a dullness in its
depths. Toward the shore it was bottle green, and even the blue far out
had a trace of tourmaline.

Schumer said nothing, and turned away to the camping place, where Isbel
was making the fire.

"Shall we go on with the diving to-day?" asked Floyd, as they
breakfasted.

"I don't feel like work," said Schumer; "besides, I doubt if it would
be any use. There's a huge, big storm coming, if I am not mistaken.
I feel it in my skin, and I feel it in my nerves. I suppose it's the
electricity in the air, but I believe I'd spark if you touched me with
a bit of metal. Listen! There go the gulls again."

Away on the reef beyond the fishing ground, so far away that their
voices came indistinctly on the windless air, the gulls were crying
again, and, standing up, Floyd could see them in wild flight about the
reef like scraps of blown white paper.

Then they rose higher, continued their argument, and began to recede.

"They are off," said Floyd; "going out seaward, the whole lot of them.
By Jove, that looks like business!"

"They know what's coming," said Schumer, "and they are clearing out of
the track. Wonder what tells them. Instinct, I suppose."

He set off to examine the cache, taking Floyd with him. He had covered
the perishable stuff with sailcloth, and he now set to make the
lashings more secure. They worked an hour, and when they came out again
the sun had lost his brilliancy--a vague mist hid the horizon on every
side.

In the northwest this thickness seemed more dense, and the sea, still
glassing in and breaking in rhythmical thunder on the reef, had turned
to the color of lead.

But for the noise of the surf the silence was now absolute and complete.

It held so till noon, when a wind began to stir the palm tops; a wind
that seemed to come from nowhere, rocking them and tossing them hither
and thither, making cat's-paws on the lagoon, and flicking at the tent
canvas like a worrying hand.

Schumer took down the tent.

He had already placed the valuables in a place of safety. He had dug
out a hole beneath one of the trees and buried the cash box containing
the money and pearls.

"You never know," he said, "if it's a cyclone that's coming. Nothing is
safe above ground. A cyclone would lift an anvil; anyhow, this will be
safe enough."

An hour after noon the great storm showed itself.

Away above the northwestern horizon a black line appeared, hard and
distinct as the outline of a country.

It did not seem to advance--it rose. Till now it assumed the appearance
of a wall. As it rose, it lightened to a dark copper color, and as it
rose it lengthened, so that now it occupied the whole horizon from east
to west.

The rapidity of this development was appalling, and the sun, as if
shrinking before the coming attack, paled still more, dimmed as by a
partial eclipse.

Now the wind came steady and strong, whipping the lagoon and bending
the foliage, and then all at once dying away again into absolute
stillness.

It was in this great pause that they heard a sound never to be
forgotten; less a sound than a vibration--deep and almost musical, like
the vibration of a great glass rubbed by a wet finger.

Isbel, who had remained on the reef near the wreck while the two men
had gone for a moment toward the lagoon edge, called out suddenly, and
they turned and came toward her.

Even as they turned, the first blast of the wind struck them, and,
battling against it, they reached where the girl was crouching,
pointing to the sea.

The sea beyond the limit of a mile or so was flat as a board, beaten to
a dead level by the coming wind and white as frosted silver.

They did not wait to see more; turning, crouching, running as swiftly
as possible, and nearly lifted from their feet, they made for the
shelter of the grove. They heard the coconuts torn from the palms
striking the sand, and Floyd had a momentary vision of nuts hitting the
lagoon like round shot fired by artillery, and then the whole solid
world seemed to smash like a ball of glass, as the blaze of lightning
and the concussion of the first peal of thunder shook the island as a
drum skin is shaken by the stroke of the stick.

Floyd felt Isbel nestling close to him like a frightened animal, and
he put his arm round her to protect her. He heard Schumer calling out
something, but what he could not tell. The wind had now followed on the
thunder in its fullest force, and it yelled.

No earthly sound could be compared to that ceaseless, mad, devilish
yell that seemed the expression of all the ferocity of all the
ferocious things that had ever inhabited the earth.

It was enmity made vocal. The enmity of the infinite and eternal.

And there was no rain. For a moment Floyd thought that there was no
rain; then, lying on his stomach and crawling a bit forward, he saw the
rain. It was not falling, it was driving across the lagoon in a great
sheet upheld by the wind, and the lightning when it struck again showed
through a roof of water.

Then, the first rush of the wind slackening, the rain, upheld no
longer, came down with a roar.

"It's not a cyclone," Schumer shouted to Floyd; "it's just a storm--the
grandfather of all storms!"

His voice was cut off by the voice of the sea, that had now added
itself to the wind and the thunder.

The sea, no longer beaten flat, had risen in its might, and was raiding
the reef. The sound was like the roar of a railway train in a tunnel.
Something of the vibration reached them through the ground they were
lying on.

They were wet through, but safe. The grove had weathered many a storm;
the position of the trees and their relationship to the reef rendered
this spot an impregnable stronghold.

Away on the opposite side of the lagoon breadfruit trees were being
broken down, but here not a tree went, though the palms were bending
like tandem whips and the leaves being torn from the artus.

As time passed, the sea began to rise more and more, while the face of
the wind lost its first edge.

Toward evening the waves were making a clean breach of the reef by
the wreck, and when dark set in, though the wind had lessened still
more, the sea had risen in an inverse proportion, and they guessed the
reason. The tide was flooding.

Then came new sounds. The wreck was going. The bones of the _Tonga_
were being crunched by the wolves of the sea. They heard the noise of
the tearing of timber from timber, the roll and rumble of balks awash
on the coral, and then, worn out and huddled together under a piece of
canvas which they dragged from the cache covering, they fell asleep,
sure that the worst of the business was over.

When they awoke, the sun was shining, but the wind was still blowing
half a gale. The fury of the storm had been in its first impact, but
the fury of the sea was now even greater than during the night.

The waves were mountainous, and the reef where the wreck had lain was
unapproachable, but the sun made up for everything.

They crawled out and sat on the sand, drying themselves in the
sunshine, stiff and chill from the damp, and feeling like people
recovering from an illness.

"That storm has been traveling a great distance," said Schumer, "and
we got only the butt end of it That's what made it blow out so soon.
A storm is like a man--it has only a certain length of life, and the
farther it travels the more it loses in size. It doesn't seem to lose
in force, only in _size_.

"This big sea shows that a big track of the Pacific has been stirred
up. This sea will travel right down to the Horn, and it will last for
days here. Look at the lagoon!"

The lagoon was strewn with wreckage, spars and planking and ribs
floated near the shore, moving as if gently stirred by some giant's
finger in the wind-whipped water; the reef, as far as they could see,
was washed free of any trace of the wreck that had lain there the day
before.

"It's a good business we salved the stuff out of her," said Floyd.
"Your business, too, that was, for if I had been left to myself I
wouldn't have troubled."

"I'll go and look at the stuff presently," said Schumer. "I believe it
won't have been hurt by the rain--at least, the perishable stuff--I was
too careful about the packing; and the drainage is all right--people
rarely think of that. It doesn't do stuff any harm to be rained on if
it is properly covered; what does matter is soaking. Yes, it's just as
well we moved in time. Now let us get to work."

A fire was impossible, as there was not a dry stick to be found
anywhere, so they breakfasted on canned meat and biscuit, and then set
to work to examine the cache.

There was two feet of water in the cache, all the rest had run off to
the lagoon by the drainage afforded at the two ends. Schumer had packed
the perishable goods on top--they were quite unharmed. Having satisfied
themselves on this point, they returned to the beach and the sea.

The wind had fallen still more, but the sea was still furious.

"It will be less over there on the reef by the fishing ground," said
Schumer, "and we can begin again with the diving work to-morrow!"




CHAPTER IX

A WEEK'S WORK


Next day, though the sea still held, the wind had fallen completely,
and the lagoon, protected by the reef, was calm, though heaving
slightly to the impetus from without.

All the water close to the reef opening was wreck strewn, a section of
deck floated like a raft, and they had to exercise care in navigating
the boat.

"If we had hands enough," said Schumer, "all that stuff might come
in useful to build a house with, or some sort of shanty that would
give more protection than the tent. We'll want something in the rainy
season. But there is no use in bothering, we haven't the hands."

When they arrived at the fishing ground they landed and found the heap
of shells they had left scattered and almost vanished.

"That will teach us in future," said Schumer. "We must find some means
of protecting the stuff in case of storms; those old rain pools would
do if we could only drain them, but we can't without labor. It's always
want of labor that has stopped us. Well, we'll get it some day."

Though no real business could be done on the fishery till more help
was obtainable, the temptation to work was irresistible.

Those first pearls were always in their minds. It was humanly
impossible to rest content with that sample, and refrain from the
attempt to get more, even in face of the exhausting labor of diving and
dredging.

But they worked less ambitiously now, and so carefully that the day's
take of shell did not amount to half the take on the first day. As a
result they were fresh when they knocked off, instead of being worn out.

They left the oysters to rot, and so it went on day by day, till
at the end of the week they knocked off the diving one evening
and contemplated their handiwork. Each day's take had been placed
separately, and the first day's was now "ripe," to use Schumer's
expression.

"We'll start on it to-morrow," said he, "and go through it slowly so
that there may be no chance of anything escaping; the dredge wants
mending, too--we'd better do that to-night after supper. Isbel can make
another pocket for it. I wish we had diving dresses and an air pump,
and when we get the business properly fixed we may be able to obtain
them; but there's no use in thinking of that now."

They got into the boat, and Floyd sculled her back, Schumer sitting
in the stern and conning them clear of the floating wreckage near the
camping place. It grieved Schumer's heart to see all that stuff waste
and ungetable. He was one of the men who can make use of anything
almost to further or maintain his set purpose.




CHAPTER X

THE SCHOONER


They started for the fishing ground next morning immediately after
breakfast, and set to work at once. They had bad luck for the first
hour, and then, as if popped into their hands by the hand of luck, came
a beauty, a perfect white pearl, twice the size of a marrow-fat pea,
maybe even a little bigger, worth five thousand dollars if a penny--so
Schumer said.

They sat down to congratulate themselves and feel their luck. You
cannot feel your luck standing. Schumer lit a pipe and Floyd followed
his example. They put a bit of seaweed on a shell and the pearl on the
seaweed, and with it in front of them began to speculate and talk.
They felt now that time was theirs, and Schumer knew, though Floyd was
still to learn, that the flower of success blooms only on the youngest
shoots, that the joy of striking it rich lives only in perfection
during the first early days of the stroke, that the fever of life and
the enchantment of triumph both die down and fade, that the fully
grasped is nothing to the half grasped.

To be given a pearl lagoon by luck and to work it as a hog works a wood
for truffles would be to act like a hog.

The stuff was all there; this and the success of the first day's work
was ample confirmation of the riches lying under that green water, and
Schumer expatiated on the matter.

"You wouldn't believe it," said he, "but the value of a single pearl
grows in proportion as you can match it with others exactly like it.
It takes eighty or a hundred pearls to make a woman's necklace. Eighty
or a hundred pearls like that one would each be worth two or three
times what each pearl is worth alone. Even twenty pearls exactly alike
would be worth much more than if they were different, for they would
form the basis for a collection. You would never dream of the work
that goes on in the world matching these things. There are men at it
all the time in Paris and London and Amsterdam. A perfect necklace of
pearls once formed is always held together; it becomes an individual,
so to speak, and is known to the trade by a name. The women belonging
to the royal families of Europe hold a number of these collections, but
there are lots of private ones, and every great collection is known and
tabulated. So you see it won't pay us to peddle our stuff out little by
little--we must hold all the pearls we get and match them."

"Look here," said Floyd, "one thing we have never settled--our shares
in this business. There's Isbel, too; she has done her bit."

Schumer laughed.

"What's the use of money to a Kanaka?" said he. "We'll give her
something, of course, but we need not take her seriously into our
calculations. Our shares--well, don't you think it's a bit early to
come to that? All this is a dream in the air at present; it may never
go farther."

"Well, it's this way," said Floyd, "I always think it's well to start
out knowing exactly where you are going to, and what you are to
get. When you sign on in a ship you know your pay, and you know the
latitudes you have got to work in, and you know the time you are to be
on the job. I think it would be better here and now to settle up this
business, and I think we ought to go half shares."

"Half shares?" said Schumer meditatively.

"I have been figuring it out in my head," said Floyd. "What have we
each contributed to the business? I have brought my work and a boat;
now, without a boat we'd have been done completely, because you can't
reach here by the reef, and we couldn't have discovered the beds
without a boat. Then there's my work. You have brought your knowledge
of pearling, and, what is more, all that trade stuff and provisions
from the wreck, your energy and enterprise and your work. When I said
half shares I did not mean that all the trade and provisions of the
_Tonga_ should not be taken into consideration. I would suggest that
when we settle up I should pay you for all that out of my share. Then
there is the money of the _Tonga_ and the _Cormorant_. While I hold
that Coxon's money belongs by right to his next of kin, I think what
I have suffered through his relative, Harrod, permits me to use that
money to further our speculation, paying it back with interest to the
next of kin when all is through. So I would be nearly equal to you in
ready cash, and the question resolves itself into my boat and work
against your work and knowledge of pearling."

"I must point out to you," said Schumer, "that I discovered the beds."

"That is true, but without the boat where would you have been? If a
ship had come along and you had borrowed a boat to explore the lagoon,
the whole affair would have been given away. I am not arguing to make a
profit out of the business at your expense, only to give my full views
on the matter."

Schumer sat silent for a minute, and Floyd again noticed that profile,
daring and predominant, hard and predatory. It was as though the spirit
of a hawk were gazing over the sea through the mask of a man.

"It seems to me," said Schumer, "that the boat belonged to Coxon."

"And the _Tonga_?" said Floyd.

Schumer shifted uneasily; then he laughed.

"Well, let it be so," said he; "half shares, and you pay for the trade
and provisions; it's early to talk of dividing what we have not got.
Still, as you wish it, I agree."

He spoke without enthusiasm. Then he rose up. They had been sitting on
the weather side of the reef, with their backs to the lagoon and their
faces to the sea; the wind had almost died away, and now as they turned
they saw, away across the lagoon, a thin column of black smoke rising
from the camping place through the almost windless air.

"It's the signal!" said Floyd.

"A ship!" cried Schumer.

He sheltered his eyes, and Floyd, doing the same, saw the figure of
Isbel moving about near the fire. She was putting fresh brushwood on
the flames, and even as they looked the smoke increased.

Schumer picked up the pearl that was still lying in the shell and put
it in his pocket. He glanced at the heaps of shell still untouched.
There was no time to cast all that back in the lagoon or hide the
evidence of their work; it was necessary to get back at once, and,
returning to the boat, which was beached on the sand, they shoved off,
Floyd taking the sculls.

When they reached the beach, Isbel was there, and helped to run the
boat up.

"A ship," said she. "Schooner, I think, away over there."

She pointed across the reef toward the outer sea.

The deck of the _Tonga_ had always given them a vantage point and a
lookout station; even without it now, just by standing on the reef
where the wreck had been they could see the sail, and Schumer, after a
brief glance, went off to the tent, which they had reëstablished by the
grove, and fetched a pair of glasses.

Through them she leaped into view, a topsail schooner, with all sail
set, making a long board for the island.

"She's coming here, sure," said Schumer; "a hundred and fifty or maybe
a hundred and eighty tons I reckon her to be; but it is deceitful at
this distance. Wonder what she is? Wonder what she's doing down here?
She may have been blown out of her course by that storm; but she hasn't
lost any sticks. Well, we'll soon see."

They watched the sail as she grew white as a pearl against the sky. The
sea had lost all trace of the late storm, and there remained only the
undying swell of the Pacific.

"I don't know what's the matter with her," said Floyd, as he took a
spell with the glasses; "but she seems to be handled by lubbers. Either
they have not enough men to work the sails, or the officers are fools."

Schumer took the glasses and watched her, but said nothing.

One of the coconut trees at the entrance end of the grove stood apart
from its fellows; it had been stripped of nuts and pretty well stripped
of leaves by the storm. At the suggestion of Schumer, Floyd, with a
flag tied round his neck like a huge muffler, and with a hammer and
some nails in his pocket, swarmed up the tree and nailed the flag to
the wood. The wind was strong enough to make it flutter, and with a
glass aboard the schooner it would be easily visible.

It evidently remained unseen, for no answer showed.

"She's blind, as well as stupid," said Floyd.

"There's something wrong with her," said Schumer, "and if she comes
blundering into the lagoon she may hit that reef we noticed the other
day on the left of the entrance. We had better get the boat out and
show her the way in when she gets a bit closer."

The schooner was two miles from the reef when they began launching the
boat. They rowed out through the break in the reef, and then hoisted
the sail.

"She sees us now," said Floyd.

A flag had been run up to the peak; it was the Stars and Stripes. Then
it was run down again, then again hoisted.

"Crew of lunatics," said Schumer, as the American flag went down again
and was replaced by the Union Jack. "What are they at now?"

"They seem to be a mixed nationality," said Floyd, "and rather
confused in their mind. Look, she's heaving to!"

The wind shivered out the canvas and the topsails flattened.

She was, as Schumer had guessed, a schooner of some hundred and fifty
tons, and well found, to judge by her general appearance, her canvas,
and what they could judge of her sticks.

As they came alongside they saw that her decks were crowded with men,
all natives; not a white face showed, and as they boarded her a hubbub
rose such as Floyd had never heard before.

Forty Kanakas, mad with excitement and all trying to explain
themselves, some in broken English and some in native, produced more
impression than understanding.

Schumer took hold of affairs by seizing on a big man whom he judged
with unerring eye to be in some position of authority. Then he held up
his fist and yelled: "Silence!"

The row ceased in a second, and only Schumer's voice was heard:

"You talk English?"

"Me talk allee right," replied the big man. "Me savvee English me----"

"Shut up and answer my questions! What schooner is this, and where
from?"

"She de _Sudden Cross_."

"The _Southern Cross_; where from?"

"Sydney long time 'go; lass po't in de Sol'mons. Capen, off'cers, all
gone; fish p'ison."

"Fish poisoning, was it? What was your captain's name?"

"Capen Watters."

"Walters, most like," said Schumer. "Well, what are all these men--they
aren't the crew?"

"Some de crew; some labor picked up down de Sol'mons, an' islan's away
dere."

"And your cargo?"

"Copra, most."

While Schumer was talking, Floyd was looking about him at the men on
deck. There were a dozen Solomon Islanders, some wearing nothing but G
strings, nearly all with shell rings through their nostrils, and some
with tobacco pipes stuck in their perforated ear lobes.

He thought he had never seen a harder lot of natives than these. The
others were milder looking.

Schumer, meanwhile, went on with his inquiries. The name of the big man
was Mountain Joe; he was bos'n. The schooner, since the loss of her
officers, had been in a hopeless state, as not a soul on board knew
anything of navigation. There had been four white men--the captain,
two mates, and a third man, evidently a trader or labor recruiter--and
the fish that had done the mischief had been canned salmon; evidently
ptomaine poisoning in its most virulent form had attacked the only
people who had partaken of it.

When Schumer had received all this intelligence, he ordered the boat to
be streamed astern on a line, and took command of the schooner.

Without with your leave or by your leave, he gave his orders no less to
Floyd than to Mountain Joe.

The Solomon Islanders and the other natives who had no part in the
working of the vessel fell apart from the crew, who sprang to the
braces at the order of their new skipper, the sails took the wind, and
the _Southern Cross_ began to forge ahead.

The wind was favorable for the lagoon opening, and as they neared it
Schumer ordered Floyd forward to con the ship while he himself took the
wheel.

As he steered, he gave his orders to Mountain Joe to get ready with the
anchor. The _Southern Cross_ responded to her helm as a sensitive horse
to the bit, and like a great white cloud she glided over the swell at
the reef opening, and like a great white swan she floated into the
lagoon.

Then the wind shook out the sails, and the rumble-tumble of the anchor
chain sounded over the water as she came to in five fathoms, and within
a pistol shot of the camping place.

Isbel was standing on the beach sheltering her eyes with her hand, and
some of the Kanaka crew, recognizing her as a native, waved and shouted
to her. She waved her hand in reply.

The schooner now swinging safely at her anchor, Schumer continued to
give orders till all of the remaining sail was stowed.

Then he turned to Floyd.

"Now, we have her safe and sound," said he, "I propose we go down and
have a look at the manifest, and so forth."

"You aren't going to land any of these people yet?" asked Floyd,
following him down the companionway to the saloon.

"Not yet," said Schumer; "and when I do land them it won't be at our
camping ground. Hello, you nigger!" this to Mountain Joe, who had
followed them down; "what you doing here? Get on deck or I'll boot you
up the ladder--cheek!"

Mountain Joe vanished.

"Look here," said Floyd, as he shut the door of the saloon, "do you
believe that yarn of the fish poisoning?"

"I don't," said Schumer; "I believe the white men were done up. They
were a hard lot, most likely, and they met their match. There was
fighting on deck, for there was a bullet mark on the wheel, one of the
spokes was injured; not only that, I could tell from the manner of
those fellows that the big Kanaka was lying. Ah, what's this?"

He went to one of the panels of the saloon by the door. It was split by
a bullet.

"Look at that!" said he.

"It's clear enough," replied Floyd, "there has been fighting down here,
too. Devils!"

"Oh, well," said Schumer, "we haven't heard their side of the story
yet. Come on, let us search and see what we can find."

They entered the biggest cabin opening off the saloon. It was evidently
the captain's. Here things were in order, the bunk undisturbed, and a
suit of pajamas neatly folded on the quilt.

"Bunk hasn't even been lain on," said Schumer, "and where would a sick
man lie but on his bunk or in it? These Kanakas are fools--soft heads;
they can't put two and two together, or imagine other people doing it.
Now, let's look for the ship's papers."

They hunted, but though they discovered the box which evidently had
contained the papers, sign of papers or money there was none. Neither
was there sign of the log.

"They have done away with them," said Floyd.

"Looks so," replied Schumer. "Unless the old man swallowed them before
he died. Ah, here's a coat of his!"

A coat hanging from a peg by the bunk attracted his attention.

He examined the pockets, and discovered a number of letters, an
American dollar, a tobacco pouch, and a pipe. He returned the pipe and
the pouch, and placed the letters in his pocket.

"We'll examine them later on," said he; "they may give us some news.
Now let's look at this chest and see what it holds."

He raised the lid of a sea chest standing opposite the bunk, and began
to explore the contents. It contained mostly clothes, boots, some
island curios, and down in one corner another packet of letters, which
Schumer took possession of.

On the inside of the lid was nailed the portrait of a stout woman--the
unfortunate man's wife, perhaps.

To Floyd there was something mournful in the sight of these few
possessions--all that was left on earth of a man living a few weeks
ago, or maybe a few days ago, and now vanished utterly; done to death,
most probably, by the savages on deck. But Schumer did not seem at all
disturbed by any reflections on the matter. With speed but no hurry he
went through the business, closed the lid, and rose up.

"Let's get on deck," said he; "we can overhaul the other cabins later
on. I have seen what I wanted to see, and there's no use in leaving
those fellows on deck too long without attention. I'll have another
talk with the big Kanaka, and then we'll go ashore and have a council
of war."

"Shall we let any of these chaps land?" asked Floyd.

"Not yet; and when we do we'll land them at the reef by the fishing
ground. Looks like Providence, doesn't it? We wanted labor, and it
seems we've got it."

"They seem a tough crowd," said Floyd, as he followed his companion up
the saloon stairs.

"They are," said Schumer grimly; "but they'll be softer when I have
done with them."

On deck, the crew and the Solomon Islanders were scattered about,
mostly smoking. Some were seated on the deck; others, leaning over the
bulwark rails, were staring at the shore. There was no sign of disorder
or danger; the unfortunates were too glad to be in a place of safety,
after their experience of driving about the Pacific without a navigator.

The open sea is a terrific place to the Pacific islander when he does
not know in what part of it he is, and when he is left to his own
resources. Schumer's prompt action in bringing them into the lagoon,
the way he handled the ship, and the manner in which he had given his
orders at once raised him to the position of the man in authority.

He ordered the boat, which was still streaming astern, with the rope
held taut by the outgoing tide, to be hauled alongside, then he told
Mountain Joe to get in, and, following him with Floyd, they pushed off
for the shore.

When they landed, Schumer called to Isbel, who came out of the bushes.
He told her to look after the big Kanaka and give him some refreshment,
and then, taking Floyd by the arm, he led him over to the windward
side of the reef, and at a point protected by trees from the lagoon
they sat down.

Said Schumer:

"When you are starting out on any business everything depends on
whether you have got a plan to go on _at the start_. A lot of darned
fools blunder along in the businesses they take up without even a plan.
If they have a plan, it's one that turns up by accident.

"Now, here's our position: Luck has sent us a schooner and a certain
quantity of labor. Good management and foresight has given us a lot of
trade, provisions, and arms; all that will be useless if we don't act
at once on a plan.

"If we let those fellows land here, and if they discover the position
of the cache, it's quite on the cards they might try to rush us. They
mustn't touch the ground here; they must be segregated over there at
the fishing ground. We have a splendid strategical position, with a
section of the reef impassable, or next to impassable, for if they
tried to come along it they'd have to go so slow we could pick them off
with our Winchesters.

"But that's all meeting trouble halfway. Our policy is to keep them
happy after putting the fear of God into them.

"I shall land them to-night over there, but first of all I am going to
show them exactly how things stand, and what they may expect if they
make trouble.

"Now come back, and we will have a talk with Mr. Mountain Joe."

They came back to the tent, where the dusky bos'n was wiping his mouth
with the back of his hand.

Isbel, who had been giving him refreshments, was standing by. When she
saw Floyd and Schumer approaching, she went off toward the tent, and
the three men found themselves alone.

Out in the lagoon lay the schooner, the crowd on her deck leaning on
the bulwark rails, and evidently speculating on what might be going on
ashore.

Joe, who had been seated, rose up, and Schumer, taking his seat on the
sand beside Floyd, ordered the Kanaka to stand before him.

Schumer, taking a tobacco pouch from his pocket and a book of cigarette
papers, proceeded to roll a cigarette. As he ran the tip of his tongue
along the gummed edge of the paper he looked up at Joe.

"What made you tell that lie," said he, "about the fish poisoning?"

Joe started as though some one had made an attempt to strike him.

"What fish p'isonin', sah?"

"Now, don't you try any games with me," said Schumer, who had lighted
his cigarette. "I know all about the affair, and I am going to see
justice done. Your captain was killed, the mates were killed, and the
other white man was done away with and hove overboard. I take it he was
not a trader, but a labor recruiter. Don't open your mouth to lie, or
I'll put a bullet in it!"

He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a revolver, which he placed
on his thigh.

"You just hear me through, for I am going to tell you things. To begin
with, I doubt if you had any hand in the killing. I judge you by your
face. Had you any hand in it? You may speak."

The man's lips were dry; his tongue could scarcely form the words:

"No, sah, it was not me."

"It was some of those Solomon Islanders?"

"Yes, sah."

"Which was the one that did it? There's always one that takes the lead."

Joe was silent.

"Which was the one that did it?" asked Schumer again, without the least
change in his voice, but with his hand now on the butt of the revolver.

"De big one, sah, wid de woolly head an' eyes so."

He tried to squint.

"Ah, that chap! I noticed him, and I took his measure."

Then, little by little, he drew out the whole story. It had been a bad
voyage for the _Southern Cross_. They had been recruiting down in the
Solomon Islands, and the recruiter, Markham by name, had been nearly
cut off.

He had adopted the usual methods, landing on the beach with a box
of trade goods and without any weapons, while a covering boat hung
offshore to protect him in case of attack.

The natives had seemed friendly, but all at once they had drawn off,
scattering toward the bush, from where next moment had come a flight of
their deadly spears, one of which had pierced Markham's arm. With the
spear still in his arm, he had managed to get off, and under protection
of the fire from the covering boat had succeeded in reaching the
schooner. The spear had been cut out, or, rather, cut off at the barb
and drawn out, but the wound had bothered him a lot.

The thirty natives he had managed to secure before the business
suffered a good bit at his hand in return for it. The captain and the
mates had not been behindhand; some of the crew had run away, and
the schooner was shorthanded; that did not add to their good temper.
They tried to make the Solomon Islanders help in the working of the
vessel, but these gentry had not engaged themselves for ship work, but
plantation work, and they said so. The captain had booted some of them
and threatened to shoot others, and generally the schooner seemed to
have been a hard ship. There seemed the distinct evidence of a trail
of drink over the whole business, and the upshot was death for the
afterguard.

Death dealt with belaying pins and an ax wielded by the woolly-headed
individual with the squint.

Two natives had been shot dead on the spot, one had been wounded,
and had died of his wounds. Then the decks had been swabbed, and the
precious crew, without a navigating officer or the faintest notion of
their exact position, had made sail, or, rather, made a fair wind that
was blowing, trusting to chance to take them somewhere.

They had touched the skirt of the big storm, but they managed to
weather it, and, seeing the island in sight, had made for it.

"Well," said Schumer, "I believe you have been telling me the truth. I
am here to do justice, and justice shall be done."

He rose up, and drawing Floyd aside, walked a few paces with him along
the beach.

"That fellow with the squint was evidently the leader in this
business," said he. "I am not thinking so much of the trouble on
board the schooner, for it's pretty evident that the old man and the
mates and the recruiter deserved their gruel. What I am thinking of is
the time before us. I am going to make these chaps work the fishery,
and I don't want a potential murder leader among them. That wouldn't
do at all. Besides, they must be shown at once their position in the
scheme of things, and that position is laborers working for decent pay,
but under a strong hand. Besides, all these fellows have murder on
their conscience--or the thing, whatever it is, that serves for their
conscience. That will always make them nervous and distrustful of white
men. I can't clear their consciences, but I can clear their minds of
the fear of consequences, and I am going to do it now.

"You have your revolver in your pocket; get your rifle, also, and come
with me. We may have to fight; there's no knowing."

"I shouldn't mind if we have," said Floyd; "rotten murderers!"

"Oh, they are all right! They are only savages, doing according to
their lights. They only require firmness to do according to the lights
of civilization."

He went to the tent with Floyd, and they got their rifles and some
extra ammunition. Then, with the help of Joe, they pushed the boat off.

The fellows on board watched the coming of the boat, evidently
suspecting nothing, though they must have seen the rifles.

Schumer was the first to come on board, followed by Floyd.

They walked aft, and Joe, when he had finished securing the boat,
followed them.

Schumer sent him below for two deck chairs which he had seen in the
saloon; they were placed close to the wheel, and the white men, taking
their seats, and with the rifles across their knees, Schumer threw his
old panama hat on the deck about fifteen paces away from where he was
sitting, and ordered all hands aft for a palaver.

No man was to take a step beyond the hat.

They came up, some of them still smoking, some chewing, and all
evidently wondering what was up, and what the bearded white man with
the fixed, determined face had to say to them.

Though he could speak in the dialect of the Solomons, he made Joe his
interpreter.

He asked the labor hands first what wages the recruiter had promised
them for plantation work.

They were very explicit on this point. They were each to receive in
trade goods, tobacco, knives, and so forth what would be the equivalent
of about seven pounds a year. They were, of course, to be fed and
looked after.

Schumer, taking a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket, made
calculations. Then he addressed them through Joe. He said that he and
Floyd were owners of this island, which was a very pleasant place, as
they could see for themselves, with plenty of food, both grown here and
brought to them regularly by a ship, which they also owned.

To allow this to sink into their intelligence, he proceeded to roll a
cigarette; when he had lit it, he went on.

He would offer them work here, and a happy life, and a return home
at the end of a year, if they desired to return. The work was very
easy, and play, compared to plantation work; it was simply diving for
shellfish. They could all dive?

A flashing of white teeth answered this question in the affirmative.

He would pay them exactly the same wages as that offered for plantation
work; each man would have to collect so much shell--the amount would be
fixed later--and for all shell collected over and above the stipulated
amount, a bonus would be paid in tobacco or whatever they liked.

The bonus business had to be explained to them, and the idea took hold
upon their imaginations at once.

They agreed to everything. The island pleased them; there was evidence
of what Schumer had stated all round--plenty of trees, fruit, and in
the lagoon fish. It seemed to them that they had dropped on their
feet at last. They broke up into little groups and chattered over the
business while Schumer sat watching them with a brooding eye.

Any other man, one might fancy, would have been more than satisfied by
the success which had apparently met his offer. In reality, he had only
begun what he had set out to do.

When they had talked together long enough, he gave orders to Joe, and
they were lined up again. Asked if they agreed to the terms offered to
them, they replied, "Yes."

Then Schumer, throwing the end of his cigarette away, crossing his
knees, and nursing the rifle lying across his lap, began speaking to
them in their own dialect without the aid of Joe.

He talked to the Solomon Islanders, but the others quite understood his
words.

He pointed out that from what he had seen below stairs, he knew for a
fact that the captain of the _Southern Cross_ and the other white men
had not died from fish poisoning, but from blows. He told them that
an English man-of-war was cruising in the neighborhood of the island,
and that if she caught them they would undoubtedly be hanged to a man;
he gave them a pantomime with his hand at his throat to help their
imaginations, and, seeing the effect produced, at once started on a new
line.

They had nothing to fear if they trusted in him and in the white man
beside him, but justice must be done. It was impossible for white men
to allow other white men to be murdered or killed without bringing the
murderers to book.

He did not believe that they were all implicated, but he did believe
that there was one among their number who had led them to this act.

Dead silence among the audience, whose faces laughing a moment ago,
were now a picture representing all the emotions that range between
furtiveness and fright.

No one spoke.

"Very well," said Schumer, still speaking in the native, "if you will
not speak it will be the worse for you. I am not your enemy. I am your
friend, and am able to protect you all from the consequences of what
has been done; but I will not do so unless I can punish the man who was
chief in this business. You will not show him to me; well, then, I will
find him for myself, for I have been born with the means of knowing
men, and I can see their thoughts, just as you can see the fish that
swim in the lagoon."

He rose from his seat and walked toward where they were standing. The
line bent back for a moment, as though they were going to break away
and run, then they stood their ground; every eye was fixed on him as he
went from one to the other, lifting this one's chin with his finger,
resting his hand on that one's head.

Floyd, still seated, had his rifle ready in case of accidents, but it
was not needed. The diplomacy of Schumer had made the crowd afraid, not
of him, but of the consequences of their act, and to cap that, they
were held by the fascination of this business and the curiosity to see
what was about to happen.

When Schumer reached the squint-eyed individual he placed his hand on
his head. Then he snatched it away, as though something had stung him,
and looked at the palm.

"You are the man," said he. "Look!"

He held up his palm for a second; there was nothing in it, but every
man in that crowd saw something, according to his imagination.




CHAPTER XI

THE PUNISHMENT


Floyd's finger went to the trigger of the rifle across his knees. He
expected a sudden attack by the criminal on his accuser, but the man
did nothing.

A murmur went up from the crowd, the sort of murmur that would have
followed the exhibition of a conjuring trick, while Schumer, taking his
man by the arm, led him apart from the rest and made him stand with his
back to the port bulwarks.

"Is what I say true?" he asked, turning to Joe.

He had calculated on everything, and he knew that Joe the informer
would never, never reveal to the others that his--Schumer's--magic
gift of seeing the truth through men's skulls was a trick based on
information.

For a moment Joe, between the devil and the deep sea, gazed wildly
round him, then he bent his head in assent.

"So," said Schumer, then he turned to Floyd. "You are one of the judges
of this man. I am the other, but I am president of this court, and I
have the casting vote--pronounce your sentence."

"He deserves death," said Floyd; "but----"

"But what?"

"I would prefer to isolate him on some part of the island and hand him
over to the first ship."

Schumer turned to Joe, and, pointing to a whaleboat hanging at the
davits, ordered it to be lowered.

When it was afloat he gave orders for the whole of the labor men to get
into it, telling them that all was clear now that the chief offender
was to be punished, and that no more would be said on the matter, that
their work would be paid for on the terms he had named, and that their
future lot would be happiness, good pay, good food, and plenty of it.

They crowded down into the boat. There were thirty of them, and they
filled it nearly. Then, leaving Floyd on board with Joe and the Kanaka
crew and the criminal, he got into the boat and took his place at the
tiller.

The Solomanders rowed villainously, but they made the whaleboat move,
and Floyd, with one eye on the murderer, who had now taken his seat
on the deck, watched Schumer steering them for the fishing ground and
landing them on the beach.

He landed them, and seemed to be explaining things. Floyd caught
glimpses of him waving his arm about almost as though he were pointing
out the view.

Then with two of them for oarsmen he came back.

Floyd, as Schumer came on deck, felt sick at heart. He hated the crime,
and he hated the sight of the criminal, but he hated even more the idea
of death, and he knew that the man now crouched on the deck was surely
going to die.

Schumer, as he came on deck, seemed Fate itself--calm, cold,
passionless Fate. The judge, the hangman, and the rope all in one.

The Kanakas seemed to guess it; the very brightness of the day seemed
grown paler. Floyd walked to the bulwark rail and looked over at the
boat where the two rowers were seated looking up at the vessel. His
lips were dry. He could do nothing; whatever was going to happen was
deserved, but it was horrible.

He heard Schumer giving his orders for signal halyard line and a block.
The _Southern Cross_ carried a brass cannonade for saluting purposes,
and now he heard Schumer giving orders for it to be loaded.

I have said that the _Southern Cross_ was a topsail schooner, and at
this moment the crowd of laborers away out at the fishing ground had
their attention drawn by the movement going on upon the rigging of the
foremast; men were swarming up, and a fellow was out on the yard--he
looked at that distance like a fly against the blue. He came down, as
did the others, and he had scarcely reached the deck when a white jet
of smoke shot like a plume from the bow of the _Southern Cross_, and
the noise of a gun came on the wind.

Something black and struggling, and just like a spider running up a
thread, went from the deck of the _Southern Cross_ to the yardarm,
touched it, and then sank some half dozen feet, and swung dangling
against the sky. It was the murderer.




CHAPTER XII

THE POWER OF SCHUMER


During it all Floyd had kept his eyes turned away. When the men had
come running aft with the halyard line they had knocked against him,
making him shift his position, and now, with the dead man swinging
aloft, he walked over to the weather side, seemingly an impassive
figure, with his rifle under his arm keeping guard.

As he stood looking over the water to the camping place he saw Isbel.
She had come out on the sands and she was standing with her hand
shading her eyes. She must have been a witness of the whole tragedy,
and she stood, motionless as a figure carved from stone--for a moment.
Then she turned, and just as though something were in pursuit of her,
she ran, making for the grove, into which she disappeared.

Floyd swore under his breath. That the girl should have been allowed to
see such a thing struck him as a monstrous fact. Gentle, kindly, and
willing she had been, almost unknown to himself, the one bright spot in
his life on the island. The one human thing to keep life warm. Schumer
had been a companion who had never grown into anything more than an
acquaintance; Isbel, though he had talked to her as little as he would
have talked to a dog, had been a friend. He did not understand her at
all; she had lived her own life, thought her own thoughts, and said
little; a child living in a child's world of which he knew nothing, but
she had somehow kept his heart warm, and now she had been allowed to
see _this_, the doing to death of one of her own people in the broad
light of day.

What could she know of the justice of the case? He turned to Schumer,
who had come toward him now that everything was finished, and, taking
him by the arm, led him to the weather rail; they leaned over the rail
as they talked.

"Do you know," said Floyd, "that child has seen the whole of this
business?"

"What child?"

"Isbel."

"Well, what of that?"

"What of that? She stood there watching it all, and then she ran off as
if some one were going to kill her. It was brutal to let her see it;
goodness knows she has stuck to us and done everything for us a mortal
could do, and now we repay her by letting her see us hanging one of her
own people."

Schumer seemed disturbed and irritated by this news.

"One cannot think of everything," said he; "you speak as though you
were accusing me. Am I to do all the thinking? Well, she has seen what
she has seen, and it cannot be helped, though I would not have had it
for a good deal. That girl may be very useful to us yet, and we do not
want to make an enemy of her. She will brood over this and say nothing,
and then maybe let us have it in the back some time. Well, we cannot
help it; we must remedy it somehow. There is no use in talking about
it with the business we have to do before us. First we must bring
stores and some canvas to make tents for those labor men. Come, we will
get the stuff together now and take it to them in the whaleboat; we
will take two of the crew with us to help to row."

They rousted out some spare canvas from the sail room of the schooner,
and had it sent into the whaleboat, which was still alongside, with the
two Solomon Islanders who had rowed her out sitting on the thwarts and
staring up at the form dangling overhead.

It seemed to fill them with curiosity, nothing more; yet Floyd noticed
that when Schumer spoke to them they jumped to attention as though they
had been addressed by some powerful chief. The crew also ran about at
his least sign, hauled with all their energy, and hung on his words.

Schumer did not go to the cache for provisions; he opened the
schooner's lazaret. She was well supplied. Though the mutineers had
killed their officers they had not sacked the provision room and
broached the liquor as they would have done had they been Europeans.

"They were helpless, you see, like a duck with a broken wing," said
Schumer. "Didn't know where they were; didn't know who would catch
them. Kanakas will drink, but they don't fly to drink like our chaps;
it's not grained in them."

They made a selection of tins and had them brought on deck and hoisted
into the boat. Schumer added some sticks of tobacco, and they pushed
off and rowed for the fishing ground.

The laborers waiting on the beach helped them to land. They were a very
subdued lot indeed; the sight of the hanging seemed to have put them
under a spell as far as the white men were concerned, and they worked
at the unlading of the stores without a word, yet with all their energy.

When the stuff was landed, Schumer began to talk to them. He asked them
to choose a foreman, and, having consulted together for a few minutes,
they picked out one of their number--a man with a huge shell ring
through his nostrils, split ear lobes, and scar marks on his chest and
all down his left arm.

Sru was the name of this individual, and Schumer, as he watched him
step out from the ranks, regretted the choice. He suspected that
they had chosen him, not because he was a favorite, but because he
was feared. This is always bad, because in dealing with a mass of
natives--and the same holds good for Europeans--authority has most to
fear from the individual. It is the one man who makes the bother, and
the man who is feared, if he is placed in a position of supremacy, is
more likely to make trouble than the man who is loved.

However, they had chosen a foreman at Schumer's request, and it
was not for him to interfere with their choice. He set to and gave
them directions as to how they were to make their camp, placed the
provisions and tobacco under charge of the foreman, ordered them to
be ready for work next morning at sunup, and then returned to the
schooner, leaving the two laborers behind with the others.

On board he gave an order for the body to be lowered and cast in the
lagoon, where the sharks were patiently waiting for their prey; then
with Floyd he returned to the camping ground, rowing themselves across
in the ship's dinghy.

They had left on board the whole native crew with Joe to supervise them.

They beached the dinghy by the quarter boat, and walked up to the tent.
Isbel was nowhere to be seen.

Schumer looked round for her, called, received no answer, and then,
with his own hands, prepared to light the fire and make the supper.

The sun was now low down over the western roof, and the lagoon was
filling with gold; the schooner, freed from the horror dangling at her
yardarm, lay with her anchor chain taut, and the golden ripples of
the incoming tide racing past her sides. She made a beautiful picture
with the sunset light upon her masts and spars, the gulls flying and
flitting about her, crying as they wheeled.

It was the time of the full moon, and she rose with the dark. Schumer
had gone to the tent, where he had placed the letters and papers taken
from the captain's coat on board the _Southern Cross_. He returned with
them in his hand, and, taking his seat by the embers of the fire, he
began to examine them.

He did not require a lamp; one could have read the smallest print by
the moonlight now flooding the world.

It was a poor enough find. There were half a dozen letters in a woman's
handwriting, mostly referring to remittances received or expected. The
addresses at the head of them told nothing. "One hundred and two North
Street" was the invariable heading, and for date Monday or Tuesday,
without hint of the month in which they were written. "My dear Joe,"
they began, and the ending was always the same, "Your loving Mary."
There were no envelopes to give a clew to the town they came from or
the country.

"His loving Mary seemed to have a keen eye for the boodle," said
Schumer. "Ah--what's this?" He had opened a letter with the printed
heading: "Hakluyt & Son, Market Street, Sydney." The letter ran:

  DEAR CAPTAIN WALTERS: Owing to Captain Dennison's illness we are
  prepared to offer you the _Southern Cross_, which is now lying in
  harbor. If you will call upon us to-morrow at ten-thirty sharp
  we will be happy to talk over the matter with you and make all
  arrangements.
                                          J. B. for HAKLUYT & SON.

"That was written four months ago," said Schumer, looking at the date
on the envelope. "They are the owners, and I believe I know Hakluyt
& Son; pair of rogues, as all shipowners are, but they are rich, if
they are the people I take them for; anyhow it's a good find. We know
the owners. You see, a schooner is not a thing you can pick up like
a purse and put in your pocket. Unless you run her into a port where
there is no law and sell her for the price of old truck what are you
to do with her? Change her name? Well, what about your papers and
your log, and how are you going to muzzle your crew, even if they are
Kanakas? You have boards of trade and port officers everywhere. It's
one of the troubles of civilization, but it has to be faced. Now, on
the other hand, knowing the owners, we have the law not against us but
on our side. The schooner is practically derelict; if we bring her
into port we can claim compensation. I see a lot of clear sky ahead
in this business if it is properly worked, and we must remember this:
the fish-poisoning business holds good; there's no use in having
government inquiries, though I don't even dread those; we tried our
man fairly and we hanged him as an example to the others who seemed
mutinous."

"Look here," said Floyd. "I want to say something about that business.
I don't deny that fellow got what he deserved, but there were others
in the business, and there is no doubt at all that they had a lot of
provocation. But you hanged that man less for what he had done than for
what he might do in the future."

"Exactly; and to show the others what they might expect, and to show
them that they have got masters over them."

"You hanged him as a matter of policy."

"Just so. As a matter of policy first, and as a matter of punishment
second."

"Well, that's where I'm against you."

"How?"

"Killing for policy's sake. I may be wrong, but it's against my nature
to hang a chap so as to strike terror into others. However, he is
hanged and done with, and there's no use saying any more on the matter."

"Not a bit," said Schumer, going on with the examination of the papers.
There was nothing else of importance; some receipted bills, some old
letters from chums dated four years back, an envelope with a theater
program in it, and another envelope with a faded photograph of a woman
in a low-necked dress, evidently the photograph of some actress that
had struck Captain Walters' fancy.

"It's funny what you find among a man's belongings," said Schumer.
"I've come across a Bible and a pious letter from his mother in the
leavings of one of the biggest blackguards in the world, and I met
a man who told me he had gone through the gear of a parson who was
laid out on a smallpox ship and found books and pictures that weren't
holy. This Walters had an eye for a pretty girl, and sent his wife
remittances pretty often; that's all his remains say of him. I reckon
he was a poor sort, sentimental, with a taste for the bottle and with
no hold on his crew."

They put the papers away, and Schumer retired to bed, while Floyd,
relighting his pipe, strolled over to the ocean side of the reef. At
night, and especially when the moon was full, this was a place of
terrific loneliness. One heard the voice of the wastes of the sea. He
sat down on a lump of coral and watched the rollers coming in and the
bursting of the foam under the moonlight.

The events of the day had depressed him, yet nothing could have shown
better results, as regards their plans, than the day's work just
finished. They wanted labor for the fishery, and labor had appeared
on the island as though summoned by a genie. They wanted a ship that
would make no trouble, and here was a schooner floating in the lagoon,
a vessel well found and seaworthy and without eyes or ears to spy on
their doings.

Fortune had turned her face toward them and held out her hand, and had
Floyd been listening to the story of himself and Schumer told as a yarn
his commentary would have been "Lucky beggars!"

The reality was different, and it disclosed the brutality which attends
success, especially the successful attempt to lift treasure that is in
Nature's keeping.

Nothing could be more fascinating than the idea of raiding one of
Nature's great banks where she stores her pearls, her diamonds, or her
gold, nothing more trying to all the endurance and good in man than the
prosecution of that great burglary.

The hanging business had hit Floyd a hard blow; more than that, the
thought of Schumer was now beginning to threaten his peace like a
phantom.

The running away of Isbel at the sight of the hanging had suddenly cast
a new light upon Schumer and incidentally upon himself.

It was as though Innocence had spoken, condemning them both. And yet
the man had deserved his fate. Floyd told himself this again and again;
it was the knowledge of this that had prevented him from interfering.
He told himself that, even as a matter of policy and to protect their
own lives against another outbreak headed by the same leader, the
action was justified.

And yet the phantom remained to disturb his thoughts. Schumer, the
man who had bound himself up so closely in his life, the man whom he
did not understand in the least, the man whose personality was so
powerful, whose wishes always made themselves good, and whose word was
practically law on that island.

Schumer was always right; that was part of the origin of his power;
he had the genius to foresee everything that was coming and the head
to prepare for eventualities. His suggestions were commands based
on reason; his orders were worded so as to seem suggestions; his
personality suffused everything, dominated all things, and made Floyd
feel at times as though he were an automaton worked by strings instead
of a living man moved by will.

Yet never had Schumer stirred resentment in him.

That is the most magical power in a great and dominating personality.
It does not irritate; it lulls. Your little strong man gets his
will--if he gets it--by setting everybody by the ears. Your big strong
man works without friction; his men become part of him, his motives
part of them; when they are free to think they may vaguely wonder at
their own subservience and even resent it in a way, yet they come under
again to the will that bends them as surely as the wheat stalks come
under to the wind when it blows.

Floyd, having smoked for a while, tapped the ashes out of his pipe
and rose up. As he was returning to the tent he caught the glimmer of
something white among the outer trees of the grove and came toward it.
It passed among the trees, and he followed it, pushing branches of the
hibiscus aside and trampling down the fern that grew here in profusion.

He was following Isbel, and there, in a little glade amid the ferns,
with her back to an artus tree, crouched in the moonlight, he brought
her to bay.

There was something feline in her attitude, as though she were about to
spring, and her eyes were fixed on him steadfastly as though watching
for his next move.

"Isbel," he said, speaking loud enough for her to hear, yet not loud
enough to attract the possible attention of Schumer in the tent near
by, "what is the matter with you? Come, I am not going to hurt you.
Don't you know me?"

He held out his hand, with the finger-tips pressed together, as one
holds out one's hand to an animal; then he took a step toward her.

She turned and whisked away round the tree, and he heard her movements
among the bushes as she vanished from sight.

He came out of the grove and went back to the tent.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next morning when he came out of the tent the first thing that struck
his eye was Isbel. She had returned, and was setting the sticks for the
fire as though nothing had occurred. But when her business was done she
vanished again, reappearing only in time to help in the preparation of
the evening meal.




CHAPTER XIII

THE HOUSE


It would be impossible to bring home to your mind, unless you had
experienced it, the vast change which the presence of the _Southern
Cross_ made in the picture of the lagoon. Not on the retinal picture,
but on the mental.

Her presence altered everything. The place became a harbor. Those spars
fretting the sky, that hull making green water beneath its copper
brought civilization up hand over fist from a thousand leagues down
under.

Loneliness had vanished, the crying of the gulls lost its melancholy,
and the sound of the surf on the reef, when one noticed it, no longer
spoke of desolation.

And, just as the schooner altered the lagoon, so did the presence of
her crew and the labor men alter the life on the island.

In a moment life had become all hurry and work.

Isbel reappeared regularly to help in the preparation of their food;
she would be on hand when wanted for any light job, but she never
sat by them now when they talked; she avoided saying a word unless
absolutely obliged to, and when she spoke she no longer looked Floyd in
the eyes.

"She is frightened to death of us and she loathes us," he thought. "Me
just as much as him. I don't wonder, either."

Schumer said nothing on the matter; perhaps he was too busy to notice
the change in the girl. He certainly had his work cut out for him. On
the first day he had to deal with the labor men, showing them their
job. They knew nothing of pearls or the shell business, but they were
like otters in the water, and they picked up the small technicalities
of the labor at once.

Sru especially seemed to take to the work as though born to it, and
Schumer left them under his foremanship and returned to the schooner,
where he had work for the crew.

He wanted a house. He had already picked out the site for it in a
little clearing of the grove well protected by the trees from possible
storms. The wood was ready to his hand in the wreckage of the _Tonga_,
which the lagoon currents had driven into the shoal water of the
southern beach right opposite to the camping place.

Of course he could have cut down trees for his building material, but
every tree in the grove by the camping place was a valuable asset as
a shelter against the weather. To have used any of the timber from
the other groves of the island would have meant not only the labor of
felling and trimming trees, but of floating them off and towing across
the water.

He made Mountain Joe foreman of the new industry, explaining to him
carefully and minutely the whole business. All planking had to be
collected, made into small rafts, and towed across the lagoon. The
whaleboat was used for the purpose, and Schumer accompanied it himself
on the first trip to show exactly what he wanted.

It took two days' hard work before sufficient planking had been got
together, and then began the business of securing and towing across
the heavy timbers to be used for posts and beams. The whole of this
business from the start of the time when the wood was lying on the sand
near the tent took over a week, during which time the fishery work was
progressing, though in a leisurely manner.

"There we have thirty chaps at work," said Schumer on the night when
the last of the timber was salved, "and you'd have imagined that they
would have done fifteen times as much work as you and I per day. They
haven't done more than three times as much. They play about in the
water; they are a bone-lazy lot--well, it doesn't matter. If we had
half a dozen dependable overseers to superintend the business when it
comes to searching for the pearls it would be different, but there is
only you and me. So it's no earthly use getting huge quantities of
shell of which we can't oversee the working properly. Funny thing it
is, but a business has to slow down unless it is perfect in all parts.
Here we have the getters of the raw stuff, and I could speed them up
four times their present rate and we'd skin the lagoon four times as
quick if I had even three more men like you and me to supervise the
getting of the real stuff--which is pearls. Yet if I had those three
men they would want a partnership and so we'd lose in profits. It's as
broad as it's long."

They were sitting by the fire, and Schumer as he talked was putting
finishing touches to a drawing he was making on a leaf of his
pocketbook.

It was the plan for the house.

He had made the sketch more as an exercise for his restless fingers
than anything else.

Nothing could be more simple or rudimentary in the way of a house plan.
The drawing provided for two rooms only, a big room and a little room.
The main door opened on to the big room.

"It won't be much of a house," said the architect, as he showed the
drawing, "but still it will be a house, and a house is a most important
thing for us. Shelter! I'd just as soon shelter in the tent; sooner,
but it's not a question of shelter so much as prestige. It's like
wearing a clean shirt. You see, if we live the same as our men they'll
get to think of us as the same, whereas if we live in a house and keep
them under canvas, or in any old huts they are able to make, they think
of us accordingly. The house gets on their mind. It is the symbol of
authority and power. It becomes the government building. There's a
whole lot in that--more than you would think. Then, besides, we want a
secure place for the pearls. It won't do to keep them under canvas or
in a hole in the ground. I'm going to build as strong as I can and make
the door to match. We will have loopholes to fire through, in case of
eventualities, though I don't think they'll be needed.

"The man who has to depend on defending his position by resisting
attack in his own house is a pretty bad administrator.

"Still one never knows what may happen, and it is as well to be
prepared."




CHAPTER XIV

MOSTLY ABOUT PEARLS


It took them a fortnight to get the main posts up and the planking
started.

Joe proved himself an invaluable worker, with initiative enough to
oversee the others, so that both Schumer and Floyd could leave him and
give their attention to the fishery and the pearl getting. Sru, despite
his looks and his scars, was shaping well also as an overseer, and the
pearls were showing in a satisfactory manner. The pearls taken hitherto
by Schumer and Floyd working alone were all free pearls contained in
the substance of the oyster or lying loose under the mantle; now began
to come in pearls attached to the shell and shells presenting blisters.

It was well that Schumer had some practical knowledge of pearling, or
these blistered shells might have been cast with the others.

Now a blister on a pearl shell looks exactly like the bleb raised by a
blister on the human skin. It is caused by some foreign body getting
into the oyster, causing irritation, and a consequent extra secretion
of nacre which covers the foreign body over. But it must never be
forgotten also that a pearl lying in the shell may cause sufficient
irritation to stimulate this extra secretion of nacre, and that, as a
result, a blister when opened may be found to contain a pearl.

At the end of a month, when the house was nearly finished, they had on
their hands two dozen of these blistered shells and a hundred and four
pearls as the result of the month's fishing, besides eighteen shells to
which pearls were adhering.

On paper that would seem to make a good show, but the practical results
were not so rosy, though fair enough in all conscience, considering the
cheap price of labor.

To arrive at a true estimate of the take one must disregard Schumer's
rough statement as to values for something more precise.

The most valuable of all pearls are those that are _perfectly round_.

A perfect pearl must have this shape, and it must have four other
qualities. It must be either pure white or pink; it must be partly
transparent; it must be free from all specks or blemishes, and it must
have the true pearl luster.

Next to the perfect comes the Bouton pearl, flat on one side and convex
on the other; lastly comes the drop or pear-shaped pearl.

All these belong to the first class, and if they conform to the four
cardinal rules as to transparency, _et cetera_, they are valuable, the
value of each depending upon the weight in grains.

Then come the second class, consisting of imperfectly shaped pearls of
good luster and quality and perfectly shaped pearls of imperfect luster
and quality.

Lastly we have the baroque pearls.

These are sometimes of very large size, but of extraordinary and
irregular shape. They are really masses of nacre that have been formed
around large, rough foreign bodies that have got into the oyster. They
are sometimes hollow, and then they are known to jewelers under the
French name _coq de perle_.

Now of the hundred and four free pearls taken in the month's fishing
only six were absolutely perfect and only two of these of large size.
Yet these two alone well repaid the labor of getting them. Of the
other ninety-eight there were twenty baroques of small value, and of
the remaining seventy-eight, twenty were estimated by Schumer to be
worthless, the last fifty-eight varying in value from half a sovereign
to four pounds.

Taken altogether, the catch was good, especially when the blistered
shells were split, for in two of the twenty-four blisters a pearl
was found of fair quality. The cavities of the remaining "blisters"
revealed nothing but some discolored water that smelled horribly.

Beside the pearls taken the value of the shell had also to be reckoned.
The shell was that known to commerce as golden-edged, and its value
might have been anything from fifty to a hundred pounds a ton.

When I spoke of twenty of the pearls being worthless I referred less to
the pearls than the remains of pearls; every healthy pearl is of some
value, even down to the tiny seed pearl, but the pearl, no matter how
large, that loses its beauty by disease is worthless.

It is the grief of pearl fishing to come across things that a year ago
may have been worth anything from a couple of hundred to a thousand
pounds and that to-day are worthless. Things as ugly as dead cod's
eyes that, a year ago, were fit to be the symbols of beauty, and it is
impossible to say exactly what causes this decay. There may be several
causes, diseases that attack the pearl as well as the oyster; but the
result is there as a proof of the vandalism of nature.

Among the trade of the _Tonga_ had been some parcels of surgeons'
cotton wool. Schumer rooted a parcel of this out, and, turning the gold
and papers from the cash box, lined it with a sheet of the wool. He
placed the baroque and lesser-valued pearls on this sheet and covered
them with a single layer of wool; on this layer he placed the pearls of
the second order. All those of the first class he kept apart in a small
wooden box, each pearl packed separately in its own nest of wool.

The few shells with pearls attached to them he placed in a cocoa box,
each shell in a jacket of wool.

"We can't cut the pearls off those shells," said he. "It's jeweler's
work, and we are only carpenters at the business. They'll keep till we
get them to Europe."

A fortnight later the roof was on the house, a roof thatched with palm
leaves bound down with coconut sennit, and the pearls and all their
other valuables were placed in the smaller of the two rooms.

The indefatigable Schumer, immediately the main door was in its place,
set his men to work making a table. The two deck chairs were brought
from the _Southern Cross_, also a spare saloon lamp and some drums of
paraffin oil. Otherwise the schooner was left intact.

"Those Hakluyts would be sure to make a disturbance if we touched any
of the saloon furniture," said Schumer. "They'd swear, maybe, we had
looted the ship, and it's my ambition to bring her into Sydney harbor
with everything standing and without a scratch on her that a Jew could
swear to."

"Schumer," said Floyd, "I've been thinking of that. When do you intend
that we should take her to Sydney?"

"Well," said the other, "now we have things fixed the sooner we make a
move the better. At first glance one might say keep her here till we
have finished with the lagoon and then shin off in her with all the
pearls we can get. That's what a fool would say, and that's what a fool
would do. Where lies the folly? This way.

"To keep her like that would mean to steal her, and, as I said before,
you can't steal a ship these days without being caught. Suppose, even,
we were to give all the ports in the world good-by and wreck her,
where would we be with our pearls on some desolate shore, or if on a
civilized shore, where would be the customs officers?

"No. Pearls aren't worth two cents without a market for them, and we
must get to Sydney, not only to claim salvage on the schooner and maybe
to get the Hakluyts to let us rent her, but to make the beginning of
a market for our stuff. We'll _have_ to bring some one else into the
affair. I wish we hadn't. I've been figuring on every means of getting
out of it, but I can't find a way."

"How are we to leave the fishery here to itself while we go to Sydney?"

"We can't do that; one of us must stay to look after things."

"Well," said Floyd, "if that is so I know which is the one that will
have to stay--and that is myself."

"It's a strange thing," said Schumer rather grimly, "but I had come to
the same conclusion. I don't undervalue you in the least, as you very
well know. I try to attach the right values to all things and people.
It's the only way to arrive at success--but your value as a negotiator
of this business is negligible simply because you have no knowledge of
trade, and--if you will excuse me for saying so--no stomach for it. If
Hakluyt is the man I imagine him to be he'd turn you inside out, pearls
and all, inside two minutes, gobble the pearls and throw away the skin.
No, I must go and deal with him personally, and you must stay here and
look after the fishing, but I don't propose to start yet, till we have
the thing more fully in hand."

"Look here," said Floyd, "why not take the schooner back to Sydney,
sell what pearls we have got there, and then, with the money they bring
and the money we have already, charter another schooner for our work.
In that way we would keep the matter in our own hands."

"One would think," said Schumer, "from the way you talk, that pearls
were to be sold as easy as dairy produce. Sydney is the last place
I would sell pearls openly in, and the very last place I would try
to sell them secretly in. Paris is the market for pearls, or London.
Besides, you must remember that Sydney is a sort of center for pearling
in the Australian Pacific, and if wind got about of our island, we
would be dogged to a certainty.

"No, we simply have to get help, and it's better to have one man with
money as our partner than half a dozen interlopers crying: 'Share
up, or we'll give the business away.' Of course," finished Schumer
meditatively, "we could use our guns against them, but those sorts
don't go unarmed, and we are only two, for the natives don't count.
As like as not, they'd turn against us from the first, and they'd
certainly do so if they saw us being beaten."

They had been sitting under a tree as they talked, close to the nearly
completed house, and, as Schumer finished, Floyd saw Isbel coming
across the lagoon from the fishing grounds in the schooner's dinghy.

The dinghy of the _Southern Cross_ was a tiny affair, even for a boat
of this type. It held two at a pinch, and its lines were the lines of a
walnut shell. It was a dainty little boat, and had evidently belonged
to a yacht at some time or another, to judge by its fittings, or what
was left of them.

Isbel was standing up and sculling with a single oar from the stern.

"I say," said Schumer, "what has that girl been doing over at the
fishing ground?"

"I don't know," said Floyd, shading his eyes; "didn't know she had gone
there. She must have gone to the schooner and taken the dinghy."

"Well," said Schumer, "that won't do. I don't want her palling up with
those labor hands; they are her own people, and she knows a lot too
much about us and our affairs to let her get thick with them. She knows
where all the trade is cached, for one thing. Besides, she hasn't been
the same for a long while. I can't get a word out of her."

"She has been different ever since you hanged that chap," said Floyd.

"Well, she'll have to change her tune, or she'll see the rough side of
me," replied the other. "I'm not going to stand any Kanaka tricks, and
I've shown them that already."

"Seems to me," said Floyd, "that all you have done by that hanging
business is to turn Isbel against us."

Schumer did not reply. He was walking down to the lagoon edge at the
point where the little boat was preparing to beach.

"Hi," cried he, "what have you been doing in that boat?"

"Been to the fishing grounds," replied the girl, as the dinghy took the
sand and she stepped out into a foot of water and helped Schumer to
haul the boat up; "been to see the men; they are my people."

"Oh, they are your people, are they?" said Schumer. "Well, you mustn't
go to them; we want you here. And it seems to me we are your people,
too. You have been with us long enough on the island to make you one of
us, and yet you go off at the first chance to your people, as you call
them."

She said nothing; she did not look in his face.

Floyd, standing by, watched her. She had brought the scull ashore; she
was holding it in her hand, and, as she stood there in the scanty white
cotton garment that fitted her with the grace that only comes from the
wearer, he thought what a pretty picture she made against the blazing
lagoon and far-off reef.

"Remember," went on Schumer, "that you are one of us, and belong to the
island, that we have helped you just as you have helped us, and that
though you have always been treated with kindness, I can punish those
who disobey me."

Floyd, as he listened and watched, thought that he perceived the
faintest curl of her lip at this latter clause, but he could not be
sure; that inscrutable, yet childish, face was very difficult to read,
and more especially now as she raised her eyes to those of Schumer.

"I will not use your boat again," said she; "it was only the little
one. Do you want me any more now?"

"No," said Schumer, turning away. "I have nothing more to say."

She put the scull back in the boat, shaded her eyes, and looked over
the lagoon toward the fishing ground, as though at some place where her
heart was, but her body could not be.

Floyd, as he went off to superintend the house-builders, shook his head.

The three of them had been almost a little family before this had
taken place. The pearls were dividing them already. Isbel had become a
stranger to him, and to-morrow Schumer might be his enemy.




CHAPTER XV

PLANS


One evening, a fortnight later, Schumer, who had just come back from
the fishing camp, found Floyd seated on the sand near the house and
engaged in mending some tackle. He took his seat beside him, lit a
pipe, and gave him news of the day's work.

"Everything is shipshape here now," finished he, "and it's time to
strike for Sydney."

"When do you propose to start?"

"At once."

"At once?"

"Why not? There are stores enough on the _Southern Cross_ for the trip,
and it's only a question of getting the water on board; that will take
us a day. The weather promises well, and I'd propose to start the day
after to-morrow."

Floyd said nothing for a moment. The projected expedition that would
leave him alone on the island had weighed on his mind for the last
few days. Whatever Schumer might be, he was a companion, the only
other white man in the place. To be left absolutely alone, with no
one to talk to, was a dreary prospect, but it was for the good of the
business, and he was not the man to grumble.

"Well," he said, "if it has to be, there is no use talking. We can't
both leave the place, and since you are the best man for the trade end
of the affair, I must stop, but it will be a pretty lonely business."

"Oh, you'll find lots to do," said Schumer, laughing. "I only hope
you won't find too much. I have drilled these fellows into pretty
fair discipline, and it's for you to keep it up. I warn you if you
don't you'll have trouble. You mustn't let them come any of the funny
business over you, and you must back your authority with your gun if
need be. Your only danger is the cache. We give these fellows tobacco
and so on, and the question hasn't begun to enter their thick heads as
to where all the stores come from, but it may, and if they scent the
cache, there will be trouble. You just remember that knives and trade
goods are like minted gold to these chaps, and if they suspected a
whole Bank of England of them here under the trees, they'd ten to one
try to raid it. You mustn't ever let them land here."

"You bet I won't," said Floyd. "How long will you be gone?"

"Three weeks to get there and three to get back, makes six weeks, and
allowing for a fortnight there--let's say nine weeks to give it a
margin. You may expect me back in the lagoon in nine weeks. If I'm not
back by then, you may begin to suspect I'm with the sharks."

"You will take the money with you?"

"Of course; and I'll take the best of the pearls, too, for several
reasons. First to show our samples, second because I'm leaving you the
lagoon. If I never come back, you'd have the lagoon, and if you bolted
with the lagoon, I'd have the pearls.

"I won't take all the pearls, only a selection of the best."

"Oh, I don't mind," said Floyd. "I can trust you; and, even if I
couldn't, you would not be such a fool as to leave a pearl lagoon for
the sake, of a six weeks' take of pearls. Well, come on to supper;
there's Isbel laying out the things; we can talk afterward."

Though the house was now finished, with the door on, and the table in,
they always took their meals in the open. Isbel had laid the plates and
knives and forks on a cloth before the door, and in the center of the
cloth a kava bowl with some flowers in it.

Schumer was always very punctilious as to the service of meals, laying
the cloth himself if no one else were there to do it. He had salved
all the _Tonga_ linen, and he would doubtless have insisted on napkins
had the _Tonga_ carried them; unable to go as far as napkins, he had
contented himself with flowers. He believed in keeping up appearances,
even if there were no one to observe these appearances but their two
selves and Isbel, and he was right. Slackness is one of the rots of the
world, and the least bit of ceremonial is the finest tonic in life.

Isbel, who never ate with them now by any chance, and who had
voluntarily debased herself from the position of companion to the
condition of servant, went off and left them to their food. The sun
sank behind the reef, and in a sky of pansy blue the first vague sketch
of the constellation began to show itself to the darkening sea. Then
almost as though touched off by a taper, the stars blazed out, crusting
with light the whole dome from the sea line to the zenith. It was the
night before the new moon, and always on these nights when the whole
lighting of the world was left to the stars a deeper peace seemed to
pervade the island and the ocean and the sky. The voice of the reef
seemed to sink lower, and the night wind to blow warmer, and the lagoon
to hold in its depths a profounder calm.

The wind to-night brought faint odors of vanilla and frangipanni from
the trees of the grove, and across the lagoon a trace of song from
the camping place by the fishing ground. The natives were amusing
themselves, and the light of their camp fire showed like a red spark
across the starlit water.

The two men on the beach sat smoking and watching the schooner as she
rode to her anchor, with a single light showing. The Kanaka crew, whom
Schumer had always kept apart from the labor men, were on deck, and
their forms could be seen indistinctly in the starlight as they lounged
about, smoking and yarning. A fellow was fishing over the after rail,
and now and then one could see a splash in the water and a streak of
silver, as a groper was hauled up.

Faint and far away and coming, no doubt, from the fo'c'sle could be
heard the strains of a concertina playing a thready and wandering air,
while occasionally across the lagoon from the deep soundings came the
splash of a great fish jumping, while the ring of it spread in a circle
of silver on the water.




CHAPTER XVI

SCHUMER GOES AWAY


They got the water on board next day, and the day following they were
up before dawn to catch the slack of the tide which was due an hour
after sunrise. It would then be still water at the break in the reef.

Schumer had made all his last preparations the night before. He would
breakfast on board the schooner when she was free of the lagoon, and
as Floyd rowed him across in the dinghy, the sky over the eastern reef
was paling, and the stars above, that had been leaping all night like
hearts of fire, showed signs of the coming day.

When Schumer was on board, Floyd pushed off again, having wished him
good luck, and then hung on his oars half a cable length away, watching
the preparations for departure.

He could hear Schumer's voice giving orders, and the bare feet of the
fellows on deck running forward to the capstan.

"Break down," came the order, and following it the chorus of the
Kanakas mixed with the rasp of the anchor chain as the slack of it came
in, till the order was given, "Vast leaving."

All sound now ceased, and at that moment, just as the first light of
day was striking the palm fronds and the topmost spars of the _Southern
Cross_, the schooner, riding at her taut anchor chain, seemed the ghost
of a ship stricken suddenly into unreality by the profound silence that
had suddenly fallen upon her. A moment passed, and then the voice of
Schumer came again, ordering the hands to set the mainsail, and to haul
on the throat and peak halyards.

There was scarcely a trace of morning bank in the east, and the light,
now strengthening rapidly, showed the great trapezium of canvas
slatting to the faint and favorable wind. Then the foresail took the
breeze, dusky forms swarming on the jib boom were casting the gaskets
off the jib, now the men on deck were hauling at the jib halyards, and
just as a horse answers to the pull of the bit, the _Southern Cross_
veered round to the pressure of the sail, while the voice of Schumer
came again, ordering the anchor to be hove up.

As it left the water and rose to the cathead, the schooner, with way on
already, began to steal toward the reef opening, the first rays of the
sun turning her canvas to vague gold against the new-born blue of the
sky.

The form of Schumer appeared for a moment at the after rail and waved a
hand, then it vanished, and Floyd, having watched the _Southern Cross_
make her first bow to the swell of the outside sea, returned to the
shore.

He hauled the dinghy up, and then, climbing across the coral to the
break in the reef, watched the dwindling sail, till the sun dazzle half
blinded him. Then he turned away and sought the house.

The two men had used the main room of the house for sleeping in at
night, a bunk mattress taken from the _Southern Cross_ being placed in
each corner, and removed in the daytime to the smaller room. Floyd,
without waiting for Isbel's help, removed the mattresses, and then
began to wash and shave. The trade room of the _Tonga_ had supplied
them with all toilet necessaries, even to scissors, and its saloon
had given them a mirror; as Floyd's eyes fell now on the scissors he
recalled the fact that Schumer had been his hair cutter, even as he had
been Schumer's. Well, it would be nine weeks before he would have the
chance of a haircut, unless he could press Sru into the business. The
thought of this made him laugh as he left the house and came out on the
beach.

Isbel had lit the fire and laid the breakfast things. She was turning
away when he stopped her.

"Schumer is gone," said he; "he has taken the ship and gone away, but
he will be back in a little time."

"He will be back----" She broke off the sentence and raised her eyes
to his, and though she was gazing full at him, she did not seem to see
him. She seemed looking at something a hundred miles away, and the
sensation of being gazed through as though he were clear as glass, and
absolutely negligible, gave Floyd a queer sensation--almost a shiver.

"In a while," said he. "What ails you, Isbel--what have I done to you
that has altered you so? We used to be good friends. It was not my
fault, that trouble with one of your people; he had killed a man. He
had committed murder, and the man who commits murder must die."

Isbel listened to him just as though she were listening to the sound
of the sea or the wind, with the same far-away look, the same air of
abstraction. Then she said, speaking not in answer to him, but as
though she were making a statement about some ordinary matter:

"I have no peace here. I wish to go to my own people. Schumer will come
back, but he will not find me."

"Hello!" said Floyd. "What do you mean?"

But she would say nothing more; she would not even look him again
in the face, and, irritated at last, he turned away and sat down to
breakfast.

If Schumer were to come back and not find her, where on earth did she
propose to go? What did she mean? For a moment the horrid idea occurred
to him that she might intend suicide; then he dismissed it; Isbel was
not the sort of person to commit self-murder without any appreciable
cause; though mysterious enough, she was too healthy and sane for that
folly. All the same, as he breakfasted, her words kept ringing in his
head:

"Schumer will come back, but he will not find me."

"God knows," thought he, "it will be hard enough here all alone without
her bolting off or doing something foolish--anyhow, there is nowhere
for her to bolt to, unless she bolts into the lagoon--confound Schumer
and his methods. If he had left that chap alone, she would not have
taken this dead set against us."

When he had finished breakfast, he went to the pierhead at the break
on the reef and swept the sea line with his eyes. Away, far away,
like a flake of white spar, a sail showed against the sky. It was the
_Southern Cross_, almost hull down on the horizon.




CHAPTER XVII

THE FIRST OF THE TWO PEARLS


He came back to the beach.

Schumer had left him two boats, the dinghy and the boat of the
_Cormorant_. They were both on the beach, and as the dinghy was the
easiest to launch single-handed, he used it and pushed off to the
fishing ground.

The gulls started after him from the reef opening, and now their voices
came singly, mewing and miauling, the very voice of desolation itself.

Looking back as he rowed, he could see the figure of Isbel; she was
putting things straight about the house, and just at that moment, as
if stirred by the loneliness and the voices of the gulls, his heart
went out to her. She was the only live thing in all that place for him.
There were living things--fish in the lagoon and Kanaka laborers on the
reef--but Isbel was the only warm spot for his mind to cling to.

The child had differentiated herself from her surroundings. By some
extraordinary magic she had, without effort and almost without speech,
pushed the image of Schumer to one side, and the forms of the Kanakas
to the other.

Schumer, despite his powerful personality, seemed a dead thing beside
Isbel, and the Kanakas, powerful and brawny as they were, seemed
puppets--things of mechanism--fantoccini. What was the magic property
that gave her the ascendency in the mind of Floyd?

For one thing, Isbel, despite her silence, her self-isolation, and the
other-world atmosphere with which she surrounded herself, had always
proved herself sterling.

Never had she failed them in any least particular, every humble duty
that had fallen to her she had carried out honestly, and no paid
servant could have worked more industriously in their interests.

Like Schumer, she had a strong personality that spoke in her actions
and her movements. Unlike Schumer, her personality remained with
one even in her absence. She was a good memory and a living memory.
Schumer, in his absence--despite his wonderful personality--was only
the recollection of a strong man absent.

That is all the difference between the mechanical and the vital,
between the grip of iron and the grip of flesh.

Then she was a woman, or at least the germ of a woman; she was
graceful, she was pretty as a wild flower, and, above all, she was an
unknown factor, a hint of strangeness, the suggestion of a being from
another star.

As he rowed, widening the distance between himself and the camping
place, he was considering Isbel in all her aspects; the absence of
Schumer and the loneliness and isolation of his own position had thrown
her, so to speak, into the arms of his mind. He was considering also
the fatal effect that had followed on the sight of the hanging. She had
never been the same since that. The deed had stricken division between
them, had called up all the barriers of race which she had expressed in
those memorable words: "I have no rest here. I wish to go back to my
own people." When he reached the fishing ground, he found the work in
full swing under the supervision of Sru.

That gentleman was seated on a coral lump, smoking, and the lagoon,
close to the shore, was occupied by what might have seemed, at first
sight, a bathing party.

They did not use a boat now; they had constructed a raft, and all round
the raft bobbed the heads of the pearl fishers, while on the raft
itself several more were stretched, sunning themselves and smoking. All
were stark naked and seemed happy as children.

Sru alone was garbed, and his simple dress consisted of a G string.

Sru saluted Floyd as the boat approached, and left his seat to help
in beaching her; then he stood by Floyd as the latter inspected the
few shells that had been taken already that morning. Sru was the only
one of the working party who could talk in English, and though his
conversation was as scanty as his G string, he could make himself
understood.

As Floyd conversed with this man, he experienced a new sensation.
Schumer had done the overseeing of the overseer up to this; Floyd
had never come closely in contact with the men, and now, as he stood
on the burning beach, almost in touch with Sru, he felt as though he
were standing in touch with some man of the stone age and the silurian
beaches.

The whites of Sru's eyes had a yellow tinge, and the glint of his teeth
as he raised his lip was like a gleam of ivory reflected from a million
years ago, the scars on his breast and arms, seen close to like this,
had a deep significance, and the smell of him, hot, gorse-like, and
faintly goatlike, was the smell of all fierce and savage things, hinted
at and vaguely expressed. The John Tan plug he was smoking lent its
fierce perfume to the natural scent of him, and he spat between his
teeth and grumbled in his throat when he was not talking.

Sru was a revelation when you found yourself close to him like this,
under the sun on a desolate beach, and with civilization thousands of
miles away.

After a while Floyd ordered the raft to be brought to the beach edge,
and, getting on to it, pushed out to inspect the work of the divers.

Oysters do not lie flat at the bottom of the sea; they lean with mouths
agape at an angle of twenty to twenty-five degrees with the sea floor.
The great clams do likewise. Floyd, looking down, could see the men who
had just dived groping along the bottom, skylarking as they worked.
One fellow who was in the act of rising with a couple of shells which
he had secured, was caught by the foot by a companion. He dropped the
shells and retaliated, the pair coming to the surface, bursting with
want of air and suppressed laughter.

As Schumer said, they were like children, and their work had a large
element of play in it. Still, they worked after their fashion, wet
hands continually seizing the raft edge and depositing the dripping
shells on it.

Although the quickest way of dealing with oysters in the mass is by
rotting them, the search for pearls can be conducted on oysters fresh
from the sea, and Floyd, as he sat on the raft, amused himself by
opening some of the shells with his pocketknife, choosing the largest
for this purpose. He found no pearls, but plenty of surprises. Nearly
every large oyster in the southern seas gives shelter to a "messmate."
A little crab, a small lobster, a worm, or a shrimp, lives in the shell
along with the host. In some fisheries, as down in Sooloo, lobsters
are only found, but here, as Floyd opened shell after shell, there was
always something new--now a crab, now a worm, now a harmless creature,
half shrimp, half crawfish.

Tiring of the business at last, he put ashore and turned his attention
to the heap of shell "ripe" and gaping, putrid from exposure to the
air, and waiting to be searched for pearls. He had got so used to the
business now that it was scarcely unpleasant. Sru and one of the hands
assisted him, and the work went forward without result for an hour, not
even a seed pearl appearing in all the slimy mess carefully washed out
in the trough of the canvas.

Schumer seemed to have taken the luck away with him. They knocked off
for a rest and a smoke, and then went at it again with, as a final
result of their morning's labor, a baroque pearl about the size of a
sixpence, and a pearl of indifferent luster and weighing about ten
grains.

"No good," said Sru, with a grunt of dissatisfaction; "heap few, heap
big work."

"Heap plenty, maybe soon," replied Floyd, turning away. He felt
depressed without the least reason for being so. No one knew better
than he the uncertainties of this work, and how much it approximates
to gambling. It was, perhaps, the feeling that Schumer had taken the
luck away with him that caused the depression. Want of success is never
inspiriting; actual defeat is a better tonic for the mind. He placed
the morning's catch in the box he carried for the purpose, and, getting
in the boat, rowed back to the encampment.

Work was never carried on during the middle of the day, and it was not
till three o'clock in the afternoon that he returned.

Isbel had prepared his midday meal for him, and he left her behind,
putting things in order. He had scarcely spoken to her, judging that in
her present humor it was better to say nothing and trust to time and
the absence of Schumer to soothe her feelings. He knew little of the
mentality of Isbel. Arrived at the fishing grounds, he set to with Sru
on a heap of shells that lay awaiting treatment.

The size of the oysters to be dealt with varied considerably. Nothing,
indeed, varies much more than the size of the pearl oysters as taken in
the different fisheries of the world. In some places the oysters are
so small that from three to four thousand go to make a ton; in others
they are so large that a ton weight of them only runs to four or five
hundred. Occasionally gigantic specimens are obtained, weighing from
fourteen to sixteen pounds, bare shells.

The largest of these oysters being handled by Floyd and Sru would
have scaled a thousand to the ton, perhaps, and the medium size about
fifteen hundred.

The afternoon work was scarcely more fruitful than the morning. It
began with the capture of two small, but almost perfect, pearls,
globular in shape, but weighing, perhaps, less than fifteen grains.
These were taken in the first fifteen minutes, and then for the next
three hours nothing showed but slush and slime.

The oysters one after the other were cleared out into the canvas trough
with a sweep of the finger. Each pair of shells were then examined for
adhering pearls or blisters, and flung aside if showing neither. Then,
when sufficient putrefying matter had been collected in the troughs, it
was carefully washed away and searched.

The shells cast aside were collected by two of the men and stored.

It was just at sunset, and at the washing of the last lot, that Floyd,
groping in the seaweed-colored and viscous mass in the trough, felt his
fingers closing upon a pebble. From the size of the object, he fancied
for a second that it was a pebble. Instantly, and before he had brought
it to light, he knew it to be a pearl.

It was. A perfectly round pearl, of enormous size, at least enormous
in comparison with all the pearls he had hitherto seen. But it was not
till he had cleansed it of slime in the bucket of water which Sru held
for him that he saw what a prize he had obtained.

It was near sunset, and the golden light, mellow and tremulous, that
was illuminating the sea and turning the west to flame, lit the
treasure lying in the palm of his hand.

It was a pink pearl, exquisite, lustrous, and almost, one might say,
luminous. It was the size of a marble. Not one of those enormous
glass marbles with colored cores which we all remember as objects of
worship, but an ordinary, practicable, play-with-able marble of full
size.

"Good Lord!" said Floyd.

Sru grunted.

To Sru all this lust for pearls was an inexplicable business. If it had
been a hunt for colored beads, he could have understood it, but pearls
to him had no more beauty than cod's eyes, and far less beauty than
colored shells. Coming from a district where pearling was unknown, he
had no idea, either, of the value of these things.

But even to Sru the new find was pleasing, because of its color, the
vague luminous pink, the luster, the semi-translucency, and the perfect
shape of the thing pleased him.

But they did not excite him. He could not understand that the lump of
colored nacre that weighed, perhaps, two hundred grains, and was worth,
perhaps, five thousand pounds, was the equivalent of mountains of plug
tobacco, shiploads of cotton stuff, knives, guns, and ammunition,
oceans of gin.

Floyd, after his momentary exclamation, controlled himself, turned the
thing over in his hand as though it were some ordinary object, and then
put it in the pearl box, carefully covering it with the cotton wool. He
put the box in the pocket of his coat, which lay near by, and turned
again to the searching of the last remnants of stuff in the trough.
Nothing more showed, and, having washed his hands in the canvas bucket
which Sru held for him, he put on his coat, and, having given him some
directions as to the storing of the shell, returned across the lagoon
to the house.

He knew that what he had in his pocket was worth all the stuff they
had taken from the lagoon. Schumer had educated him on the subject of
pearls, but even Schumer, with all his knowledge, could not have fixed
the value of this splendid find, perfect in all parts, and weighing at
least a hundred grains.

After supper he took it out of its box and examined it by the light of
the fire. It was even more beautiful by the glow of the burning sticks
than by the glow of the sunset.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE VANISHING OF ISBEL


Next morning, when Floyd came out on the beach, he could not find Isbel.

He called to her, and there was no reply; then he started off to hunt
for her in the grove, but she was not there.

He went to the seaward side of the reef; the breakers were falling and
the gulls flying, but there was no sign of Isbel. She had vanished as
completely as though she had never been. Floyd, in perplexity, shaded
his eyes and gazed toward the sea line, as though he fancied some ship
might have come and taken her off, but the sea line was as empty as
the sea, and the only thing visible away out there was a frigate bird
sailing on the wind.

The bird was passing the island with supreme indifference, traveling
under the dominion of some steady purpose, and heading for some
destination, perhaps half a thousand miles away. It dwindled in the
blue, and Floyd, turning, took his way back to the beach.

The dinghy and quarter boat were still there, otherwise he might
have fancied that she had gone to the fishing camp; the thing seemed
inexplicable, and trying to put it from his mind, he set to on the
preparations for breakfast. He lit the fire and put some water on to
boil, opened some canned stuff, and then, having set a plate and knife
and fork, made the coffee. He did all this automatically, working by
instinct and habit, and almost heedless of what he was doing. A great
desolation had fallen upon him, and a great fear, and in the midst of
this desolation and fear something was calling out to him, a voice he
had never heard before.

With the food untasted before him, he sat with his chin on his hands,
gazing at the beach, white in the burning sunshine, and across the
water of the lagoon, blue and ruffled by the morning wind.

Isbel, from the very first, had been for him a pleasing figure, quaint
and with something of mystery about it. He did not know till now how
much of his subconscious life she had occupied, nor how much he had
really cared for her. She had grown on him till he had come to love
her; that was the fact, and a fact that he recognized now in the pain
and fear and desolation of his heart.

It was the strangest and rarest form of love, this love of his for
Isbel. The love of a lonely man for a flower, or a child, and with just
the hint of the love of a man for a woman.

She was the germ of a woman, and by just that extent did the bond of
sex hold him to her.

His life had been very lonely. Right up from his boyhood he had lived
pretty much uncared for. He had made friendships, but the wandering
life of the sea breaks ties just as it casts away lives; he had no
home, no family, and the men he had grown to care for, old chums and
messmates, were like the gulls--once parted from and lost to sight,
never to be found again.

As he sat like this, on the wind which was setting across the lagoon
from the fishing ground, came a snatch of song from the fishermen who
were at work.

He rose up, and, leaving the food still untasted, came down to the
water's edge and, pushing the dinghy off, got into her and sculled
across to the camp.

He had some thought of telling his trouble to Sru, and some vague idea
of seeking help from him. Never for a moment had the idea come to him
that Isbel might have joined the fishing camp.

It seemed impossible for her to have got there across the rough coral
of the reef, and equally impossible across the lagoon. Yet when he
landed, the first object that caught his eye was Isbel. She was seated
in front of one of the tents engaged in shredding some coconut pulp
into a bowl, and when she saw him she did not seem at all put out.

She had gone back to her own people, literally, and to look at her he
might have fancied she had never parted from them. Floyd nodded to her.
He could have laughed aloud in the relief of seeing her safe and sound;
she nodded in return, and went on with her work. She did not seem in
the least put out or ashamed of herself for having deserted him, and
now that his fears about her were removed, he felt irritated at her
coolness.

All the hard things that Schumer had said about Kanakas rose up in his
mind--"animals dressed in human skin," "creatures without souls," and
so forth.

But these sayings vanished from his mind almost immediately. They had
no clutch in them, simply because they had no truth in them, and
Isbel, as she sat at work before the tent, formed their last antidote.

Never had she looked prettier than this morning, seated there on a
little mat, a fresh scarlet flower in her hair, her feet tucked away,
and her brown hands busily at work.

Floyd came up to her.

"So there you are, Isbel," said he. "I did not think you would have
gone off and left me like that."

Isbel made no reply; she continued her work without looking up; one
might have fancied that she had not heard him.

"Of course," said Floyd, "if you had told me, I would not have tried
to stop you. Why should I? You are perfectly free here to do as you
please. I would even have brought you here myself in the boat. How did
you get here?"

"Along the reef," said Isbel, without looking up.

"Along the reef--why, you must have cut your feet to pieces!"

For reply Isbel pushed a foot out from under her robe.

It was a perfect little foot, honey-colored, perfect in form, the
toenails polished like agate. He had seen it often before, but it
seemed to him that he saw it now for the first time. As he looked at it
the toes spread apart, and it was flexed and extended, as if to show
that it had sustained neither scratch nor injury. Then it vanished.

"Well, you are cleverer than I am," said Floyd. He would not stoop to
question her as to how she had negotiated the reef. If she did not
choose to tell, why, then let her keep silent. He turned on his heel
and walked off to where Sru was waiting for him. Then, as they made for
the place where the oysters were lying ready to be examined, he glanced
back; she had vanished into the tent.

He said nothing to Sru on the matter, nor did the foreman make any
comment about the girl. They set to on their task, working an hour
without any result, and then knocking off for a rest and a smoke.

It was during the second spell, and Floyd had just turned to place the
only take of the morning, a small and nearly valueless pearl, in the
box, which he carried for the purpose, when their attention was drawn
by shouts from the fellows who were working in the lagoon.

They had been shouting and splashing at their work, but these outcries
had a new note that brought Floyd and Sru to their feet in a moment,
and down to the lagoon edge.

The dinghy, in which Floyd had come over, was lying on the sand, with
the incoming tide rippling up to her; they pushed her off, reached the
raft, and found what was the matter.

One of the workers, Timau by name, while groping along the bottom of
the lagoon, had stepped into a half-open clamshell, the shell had
closed on his foot like a trap, and he was a prisoner.

This is one of the most terrible accidents that can happen to the
pearl fisher. The great clam grows to an enormous size, and, like the
oyster, he does not lie flat on the sea floor, but tilted at an angle
of twenty-five degrees or more. The sand, if there be much sand where
he lies, tends to silt round him and hide him, and so he lies, a
veritable man-trap for the unwary.

The raft was crowded with men, all shouting, and not one of them,
seemingly, with the vestige of an idea as to how they were to render
assistance. Timau could be seen clearly; he had fallen on his back,
with his right leg bent and the knee pointing upward; the right foot
was held by the terrific shell, whose contracting muscles were powerful
as iron bands.

Nothing could be more shocking than this seizure of a man by a
shellfish, this quiet destruction of the highest form of life by the
lowest form of intelligence.

The shark moves under the dominion of will, and the cuttlefish knows
at least hunger, but the great clam is fed by the water that laves it,
and its only expression of will is to grip and hold whatever dares to
violate its sanctuary.

For a moment Floyd was as much at a loss as the others; then he saw on
the raft the iron bar used for breaking down coral formations that were
encroaching on the beds. It was about two-thirds of the thickness of an
ordinary crowbar, and measured about three feet in length.

He scrambled on to the raft, seized the bar, and dived.

He was not wearing his coat, but otherwise he was fully dressed; in the
moment between seizing the bar and diving he had thought out the whole
plan of action. The great clam, inclined to an angle of twenty degrees,
had to be pried open, and to do so the under shell had to be brought
level with the lagoon floor, so as to obtain a purchase.

The watchers above saw him thrust the bar between the shells, an act
easy enough to accomplish, as they were held four inches and more apart
by the victim's leg. This done, he inserted his booted foot as if to
tread down the under shell, while he levered up the top shell.

He had reckoned on his weight being sufficient to press down the shell,
forgetting that a man weighed in sea water scales very much less
than a man weighed in air. Yet, even so, he managed to reduce very
considerably the angle, and with a tremendous effort managed to wrench
the two shells apart.

He rose instantly, nearly bursting for want of air, and as he rose the
fellows on the raft, courageous enough now, dived like one man to fetch
up the body of Timau.

They brought it to the raft, where Floyd was resting, and hauled it on
to the logs, while Floyd, on hands and knees, examined it.

Timau seemed a very dead man. The right foot and part of the leg was
black and lacerated; there was neither movement of heart nor sign of
respiration, and Sru, who had also bent down to examine him, rose up
with a grunt.

"Heap dead," said Sru; "no more fishing for Timau."

Floyd ordered them to push the raft ashore. This having been done, he
had the body laid out on the hot sand, and started to work at once with
artificial respiration.

He had to do the business alone, for not one of the hands could
understand what was required to be done, nor would they have helped had
they understood. This was witch business; the man was dead and beyond
recall; it was plainly against nature to try and bring him back.

However, back he came. Floyd had been working for some ten minutes when
the first signs of returning life showed themselves. Ten minutes later
Timau was leaning on his elbow, blinking at the world to which he had
returned, hiccuping and endeavoring to speak.

Floyd had him carried up to the nearest tent and laid on a mat. Then,
with the help of Isbel, who had suddenly appeared, he set to to dress
the injured foot. The lower end of the fibula was fractured, all the
skin over the lower part of the leg was lacerated and bruised, and
there was a nasty cut on the instep. They laid wet cloths on the
wounds, made a bandage over them of coconut sennit, and left him so far
recovered that he was able to smoke a pipe.




CHAPTER XIX

THE MIRACLE


Timau made a good recovery. In a couple of days he was hobbling about
with the aid of a stick, and in a week, but for the bandage on his foot
and leg, he seemed a well man.

He was also a distinguished personage in a way; honored as a man
returned from the grave, yet, at the same time, avoided as much as
possible. In other words, he was feared, and he made the best of the
situation by doing no work and drawing full allowances in food and
tobacco.

He did not show the least outward gratitude toward Floyd for his rescue
and restoration, and Floyd, in his turn, found himself somewhat in the
same position as Timau.

Sru, while working just the same, showed considerable reserve in his
dealings with his manager. A man who could bring a corpse back to life
was not a person to be dealt with lightly, and the strange thing was,
that Floyd's beneficent action did not seem to strike Sru in the light
of beneficence. It was quite plainly evident that it was looked upon
more as an act of evil than of good.

The other natives seemed of the same mind as Sru; they never laughed
and tom-fooled now when Floyd was present--they worked better.

Isbel seemed quite unmoved. He saw her now nearly every day when he
came to the fishing camp; she had quite settled down in her new home,
and seemed always busy, yet somehow to Floyd's eyes she seemed changed.
It was toward the first week of Schumer's absence that Floyd became
fully alive to this change in her. She was no longer a child. Just as
some tropical plants bloom in a night, so in the course of a few weeks
she had changed, at least to his eyes. It was as though a new person
had come upon the island.

But the miracle of the change in her had touched him, too.

The whole world seemed suddenly altered. Life, in a moment, had become
a different thing. Life, in a moment, had become worth living, the sky
and sea bluer, the sun more friendly, the island more beautiful.

Isbel had not changed the least in her manner toward him, but the
magic of life that had touched her had touched him through her. She
was always in his thoughts--when he returned at night to the house,
and when he returned in the morning to the fishing ground, when he lay
awake at night and when he worked with Sru by day.

He was in love, but he did not recognize the fact for a long time, and
even then he formed no plans and dreamed no dreams after the fashion of
lovers.

The idea of Isbel was enough, the sight of her, the memory of her.

Had she shown by the faintest sign that she was thinking of him, it
would have been different. The will to possess her would have at once
arisen. But she showed nothing, living and moving as remote from him
as the moon that silvered the reef and shone upon the water.

One morning Floyd, who ever since the departure of Schumer had
recorded the time by making a notch each morning on the doorpost,
completed the forty-ninth notch. It was exactly seven weeks since
Schumer's departure. He had lost all record of the day of the week.
The _Cormorant_ had been lost on a Wednesday, and on landing he could
easily have reckoned the day by the time spent in the boat, but he had
not troubled. Schumer had also lost the day of the week, but the loss
affected them very little here, where even the hour of the day was of
small account.

"He ought to be back in a fortnight," said Floyd to himself, as he sat
down in the shadow of the house to smoke a pipe before starting for the
fishing ground. "Wonder what luck he's had."

He sat smoking and reviewing the events that had happened since
Schumer's departure and the take of pearls.

Since the capture of the pink pearl, luck had been very uneven. All
told, the take had amounted to a hundred and five, leaving out seeds
and worthless specimens. Of these only twenty were of any considerable
size or value. There were also twenty-five blistered shells, which
Floyd had put aside to be dealt with by Schumer.

The unevenness of the luck lay in the fact that during some weeks the
catch would be quite negligible, during others quite good; some days
would be blank, while on the other hand three of the best had been
taken on the same day.

To-day was to prove lucky, for when he approached the fishing ground,
Sru approached him with a large oyster in his hand.

The natives ate oysters sometimes, always cooking them first, a strange
thing, considering the fact that they would eat fish not only raw, but
living.

This was one of the oysters destined for food. It had been opened, and
when Sru reached Floyd, he lifted the upper shell, and, putting his
finger under the mantel, raised it, disclosing a loose pearl.

It was as big as the great pink pearl, but of a virginal white. Floyd
had experienced many sensations in life, but none so vividly pleasant
as now at the sight of this thing fresh from the lagoon, and in its
strange home.

The pink pearl had been fished out of a mess of putrescence, but here
was a gem handed to him as if by the dripping hand of the sea.

He took the oyster, carefully extracted the pearl, and held it in his
palm, while Sru looked on, evidently pleased with himself, and the
other hands stood around, glad of any opportunity to knock off work.

"Good," said Floyd; "you shall have two sticks of tobacco for this, and
I will give the same to any one who finds another like it."

He put it in the box, trying to assume as careless a manner as
possible, and then turned to the work of the day, ordering at the same
time the idlers to get back to the lagoon.

When the day's work was over, Sru demanded his tobacco.

"To-morrow," said Floyd. "I will fetch it over in the morning when I
come."

But Sru, who was very much of a child, despite his size and strength,
was not to be put off till the morrow. He wanted his reward at once,
and Floyd, irritated, yet amused at his persistency, ordered him to
get into the dinghy and accompany him across the lagoon to the camping
place.

Here he left him by the boat, while he went off to the cache for the
tobacco.

He had to remove the tarpaulin to get at the case where it was; having
finished this business, he turned to come back and, doing so, caught a
glimpse of Sru.

Sru had left the boat and followed him unnoticed. He had been watching
him through the trees, and must have seen the cache and its contents,
the piles of boxes and bales of stuff, all half-glimpsed or hinted of
under the tarpaulin.

A chill went to Floyd's heart. He remembered Schumer's words and his
warning against letting any of the labor men land just here. Schumer
had been so strict that even the Kanaka crew of the _Southern Cross_,
who had helped to build the house, were never allowed to go beyond a
certain point. And now Sru had seen everything.

The man was walking back to the lagoon edge when Floyd overtook him
with the tobacco, and Floyd, furious though he was, could say nothing.
Sru had broken no orders in following him, and to show any anger now
would be the worst policy in the world.

He got into the dinghy, rowed over to the fishing camp, landed Sru, and
returned. It seemed to Floyd that the capture of a big pearl always
brought trouble. The finding of the pink pearl had been followed by the
going off of Isbel, and now this had happened.

He lit the fire for supper, and then set to prepare the meal. When it
was over, he sat smoking and watching the starlight on the water of
the lagoon. Dark ripples were flowing up from the incoming tide, round
points of light showed here and there, the result of eddies or the
splash of jumping fish; away, seemingly miles away, the camp fires of
the pearl fishers showed spark-like in the blue gloom of night.

The camp fires fascinated Floyd. Isbel was over there, and over there,
also, was Sru. Sru, with his yellow-tinged eyes, the scars of old
battles on his body, night in his heart, and the knowledge of the cache
in his head.

What a fool he had been to disregard Schumer's advice; the wise
Schumer, who foresaw everything, had even seen his--Floyd's--stupidity.

Well, there was no use in complaining; the thing now was to make
preparation for whatever might happen. The house door was strong and
the walls, without being loopholed, had convenient spaces--"ventilation
holes" Schumer had called them--through which a rifle might be fired.

He rose up and, going to the house, lit the lamp and began to overhaul
the arms and ammunition. This done, he retired to bed with a loaded
rifle by his side.




CHAPTER XX

THE TROUBLE WITH SRU


When he came to the fishing ground next morning, he kept a keen lookout
for any alteration in Sru.

Sru, however, seemed just the same, and the hands were working as
usual. Timau, wholly recovered now, was working with them, but there
was no sign of Isbel.

He asked Sru where she was, and Sru cast his yellow-whited eyes about
as if in search of her. He opined she might be somewhere in the grove
that lay to the right of the camping place, and indicated the place
with his hand. But as Sru spoke with seeming indifference, Floyd
noticed an expansion of his nostrils and a new light in his eye. It was
as though something had suddenly irritated him.

That something could only be Isbel.

Floyd thought little of the matter. He knew Isbel's ways, and could
easily imagine that her strange nature might give cause for friction
between herself and her own people. He set to work and put the thought
of her out of his mind--or fancied that he had done so.

As a matter of fact, she was never quite absent from his mind, and he
had reached the stage now of anger with the Kanakas that she should be
of their blood and living among them as one of them.

The strange psychological fact presented itself that though Isbel was a
Kanaka, he was beginning to feel toward Kanakas some of that contempt,
amounting to dislike, so evident in Schumer. That she who was so
different to these people around him should be of the same blood was,
so to speak, an insult against her.

Sru's savagery and scars, Timau's ugliness--for Timau was a most
unbeautiful type, though, withal, having a certain honestness in
his plainness, the monkey tricks of the others, and their general
childishness and fatuity, all these things were a reflection on Isbel.

And she chose to live among them! She had discarded him for them. It
only wanted that to complete his feelings on the matter.

Before he returned to the camping place that night he caught a glimpse
of her. She was down by the lagoon edge, filling a bowl with sea water,
and when he spoke to her she replied to him as usual, yet her manner
was different. She seemed upset about something. He might have fancied
that she was sulking, had he not known her so well by unconscious study
of all her moods and expressions. This was not ill temper--as a matter
of fact in all his experience she had never shown ill temper--but
something else. She was unhappy. Something had occurred to disturb her
or to frighten her. She seemed cowed, and as she went off with the full
bowl, he was on the point of running after her to seek an explanation.

But he checked himself in time. He knew quite well it would be useless,
and he dreaded to give her any cause of offense. Sru most likely had
spoken harshly to her, or she had fallen out with some other member of
the tribe. It was not for him to interfere in the domestic affairs of
this strange company, and now for the first time fully he recognized
the veil of difference that separated him from this race, alien to him
as the people of some other star.

He got into the dinghy and returned to the house. It was the evening of
the new moon, and even as he rowed across the lagoon she showed in the
blue east like a reaper's sickle held up for the sun to look at before
his setting.

Never had Floyd felt lonelier than this evening. Isbel seemed suddenly
to have pushed still farther away from him, and the lonely beauty of
the island under the sunset, and the sickle moon, seemed part of the
new loneliness that had fallen upon his life.

Halfway across the lagoon he stopped rowing and put his hand to the
pocket in which he carried the pearl box. He had left it behind on a
ledge of coral by the working place. It contained the day's take, two
small pearls of little value; still, it must be recovered.

He turned the boat and rowed back. The hands had all dispersed along
the reef armed with fish spears, the tide was falling, and there were
often big fish to be got in the rock pools at low tide. Not a soul was
in sight, and, having found the box lying just where he had left it
on the ledge of coral, he turned back toward the boat. He had nearly
reached it when a cry from the grove which lay to the left of the
camping place made him start.

It was Isbel's voice. In a moment he was away among the trees, and
there he found Sru, Sru struggling with Isbel.

The thing seemed absurd, absurd as the idea of a child struggling with
a tiger, and yet she was holding him off, with no breath now to cry
out, one hand twisted in his long hair, and the other striking at his
face.

Next moment Floyd had Sru by the throat, half strangling him with a
powerful grip; then, releasing him, he struck out.

The blow landed right on the point of the chin, and Sru, felled like an
ox under the poleax, crashed into an hibiscus bush and lay without kick
or movement as if he were dead. Floyd turned to Isbel. She had fallen
and half risen, supporting herself with one hand on the ground. She
seemed dazed, like a person who had received a violent blow.

He bent down, picked her up, and, holding her in his arms, carried
her down to the boat. He did not worry about Sru; his one thought
was to get Isbel to a place of safety. If Sru were dead, there would
be no more trouble over the matter. If, on the contrary, he was only
suffering from the effects of a knock-out blow, he would certainly seek
vengeance when he recovered. When he placed Isbel in the boat, he found
that she had lost consciousness.

The sun had not set; it was at the moment of conflict between the
starlight and the last rays of sunset, the pale sickle of the moon had
grown to a brilliant orange gold, and the light was strong enough to
brighten the lagoon water.

Arrived at the beach, he stepped out, and, lifting Isbel in his arms,
carried her up to the house. She was no longer unconscious, and, as he
carried her, he felt her arm clasped round his neck. It was as though
she were accepting his protection and thanking him at the same time.

Arrived at the house, he placed her on the bunk mattress upon which he
always slept, lit the lamp, and knelt down beside her. "You'll stay
here now, Isbel," said he; "you will not run away from me any more,
will you? I've been pretty lonely without you, but I did not mind so
long as I thought you were happy with your own people. You see how they
have treated you----"

She raised herself on her elbow and looked into his face, the lamplight
struck her hair and forehead, while he saw nothing for the moment, and
knew of nothing, but the brown depths of her eyes, so close to him, so
mysterious, so luminous--yet so dark.

"I will stay," said she. "I did not know you before. I know you now."

He took her hand and she let him hold it for a moment. It was the first
time that hand had been in his, a hand firm, yet soft, subtle, yet
capable, warm as life itself. Then he released it and rose up. There
was grim business to be attended to, and as he fetched the two rifles
and their ammunition from the adjoining room, the feeling came to him
that up to this he had never really lived, but had only existed as a
spectator of life. Here was life raw and real, the battle for existence
and love and everything worth having; the supreme moment which many of
us never know.

He placed the rifles on the table and the ammunition beside them, and
then went back and fetched the revolvers. When he returned, he found
that Isbel had left the mattress and was standing by the table, with
one hand resting on it, and her eyes fixed on him.

"These are for Sru if he comes with any of those fellows behind him,"
said Floyd. "It's as well to be prepared."

"Schumer showed me how," said she, "before you came here--long before.
Look----" She opened the breech of one of the Winchesters, extracted
the cartridges, and put them back. "Then you fire--so." She put the
rifle to her shoulder and took aim at some imaginary object, then,
lowering it, she turned to him, and for the first time she smiled.

Her eyes lit with a new light, her little teeth shone, it was as
though something bright and fierce, some unknown spirit, dwelling in
her nature, had suddenly peeped out. He recalled the day when they had
smashed the bottles on the reef, and she had assisted, laughing at the
destruction. She had not smiled, she had laughed, little short laughs
sharp as the thrusts of a stabbing spear.

"Ah," said Floyd, "you know how to use a gun. Well, that's all the
better. If they come to make any trouble, we will be able to give them
something they won't like, you and I."

"You and I," said Isbel, with the same smile. Then, suddenly, she
pressed her little white teeth on her under lip.

She placed the rifle back on the table, and, turning, left the house by
the open door.

Floyd looked after her, wondering what had happened now. He finished
the examination of the rifles and revolvers, and then, leaving them
upon the table, came outside.

Isbel was lighting the fire to prepare supper for him.




CHAPTER XXI

BEFORE THE ATTACK


That night he made her sleep in the house, while he took his place
outside. He arranged to call her when half the night was over, so that
she might keep watch while he slept, and as he sat with his back to the
house wall, and a loaded rifle by his side, he tried to forecast the
possibility of an attack and the upshot, should it occur.

The fact that Sru had seen the cache weighed with him as much as the
occurrence of that evening. The two facts combined made the position
very, very threatening. The labor men had no arms and ammunition, but
they were thirty in number; they had no boat, but they had the raft,
and though the reef was almost impassable, Isbel had got along it
that night of her flight, and what she had done, these fellows could
doubtless accomplish also.

He could see the sparks of the camp fires away across the lagoon, but
though the wind was blowing from over there, it brought no sound on it.
Usually one could catch stray snatches of song from across the water,
or the fellows shouting as they speared fish in the rock pools by
torchlight.

To-night the silence seemed ominous, and the light of the camp fires
like threatening eyes. Now and again would come the splash of a fish,
and now and again the wind breezing up for a moment would set the
foliage moving in the grove, the breadfruit leaves clapping like great
green hands, and the palm fronds rustling and cheeping.

The surf on the outer reef was low of sound to-night, yet,
occasionally, over to the west, where the full trend of the swell was
meeting the coral, it would speak louder and become angry like the
sound of a train at full speed.

Even the stars had taken on the aspect of attention; they seemed
watching and waiting to see something that would surely occur.

Floyd had to get up and pace the sands to break the spell. Then, after
a while, he sat down again. The fires over at the fishing camp had died
out, the wind had fallen to the merest breath, and the surf on the
western reef no longer snarled.

Danger seemed to have drawn away from the island, leaving behind her
the profoundest peace. Floyd, whose eyes were longing to close despite
all his efforts to keep awake, felt a touch on his shoulder. It was
Isbel come to relieve guard. When he came out next morning, the sun was
up, and Isbel had lit the fire and was preparing breakfast.

They sat down to the meal together, and, when it was over, Floyd
declared his intention of going, as usual, to the fishery.

"We must keep the work going, at all costs," said he. "If I did not,
they would think I was afraid, and then they would be sure to attack
us. Besides, there may be nothing to fear. Sru is the only one I care
about, the others are pretty harmless, with no one to lead them, and
Sru may be knocked out. He looked pretty dead when I left him."

Isbel shook her head.

"One blow would not kill Sru," said she. "Too strong. If you go, I go
with you."

"You," said Floyd. "And suppose--suppose they attack us?"

"Suppose you go alone and get killed," said Isbel, "what become of me
here alone? No, I go if you go. I can shoot. I stay in the boat to keep
it safe, whiles you go to the fishing. If they come to take the boat,
I kill them. If they strike at you, I kill them. You don't know me. I
know myself. I have no fear at all."

"I believe you," said he. "Yes, we will go together; you are worth half
a dozen men----Isbel, why did you run away from me that time?"

Isbel looked down.

"I went to find my own people," said she at last. "I was afraid."

"Afraid of me?"

"I don't know," said Isbel; "you and Schumer, and being alone with you
made me afraid."

"And you are not afraid any longer?"

"With you I am not any more afraid," said Isbel, speaking with
difficulty, and drawing a little pattern on the sand with her finger
tip. Then, looking up: "Not even with Schumer, if you were there."

Floyd was about to take her hand, but he restrained himself.

"That is good," said he. "You need never have been afraid of me. I care
for you too much to let any one hurt you, and that morning when I came
out of the house and found you gone, when I searched in the grove and
along the reef and could not see you and thought you might be drowned
and that I would never see you again, the world seemed no use any
longer."

He rose to his feet as if to check his words, and walked off to the
house, leaving Isbel still seated on the sand, and still drawing the
pattern with her finger.

He returned with one of the Winchester rifles under his arm, a revolver
in his hand, and one in his pocket.

Isbel rose, and, going down to the lagoon edge, they pushed the dinghy
off, got in, and started for the fishing camp. As they drew near they
saw that the fishing was going on apparently as usual, and the first
person to greet them on the beach was Sru.

There were all the elements for a strained situation, but Sru showed
no sign of the incident of the day before, and when Floyd stepped
out on the sand, nodded his head as usual, and grumbled something in
his throat that seemed intended for a welcome. But his eye lit on
the Winchester Isbel propped against the seat of the dinghy, and it
doubtless took in, also, the revolver butt sticking from Floyd's coat
pocket.

The seeming indifference of Sru to what had happened struck Floyd as
almost uncanny; then, as they set to work, he let the matter drop from
his mind. If it satisfied Sru to take a thrashing and say nothing,
it satisfied Floyd's policy to let the matter drop. The man had been
punished for his misdeed, and the incident was closed, for the present
at least.

Now Schumer would undoubtedly have tried the man and shot him offhand,
not only for the attack on Isbel, but to safeguard the little colony.
Floyd, though just as courageous as Schumer at a pinch, and probably
more so, was incapable of acting the part of executioner. He could not
kill a man in cold blood.

So he worked side by side with the yellow-eyed one, and as the labor
went on he forgot more and more the danger of the situation, but he
might have noticed, had he turned, that Isbel, who had taken her seat
on the sand by the boat, never left her position for a moment, and that
position enabled her, if need arose, to stretch out her arm and seize
the Winchester that was propped against the seat of the dinghy.

Neither would she have anything to say to the fellows who were diving.
The raft came several times ashore to discharge shell, and some of the
hands drew close to her, but she told them to clear off.

Floyd heard her voice once or twice hard and sharp, a quite new voice
for her. He could not tell what she said, but he noticed that none of
the fellows approached her.

Some of them, as far as he could judge, seemed deriding her just as
schoolboys joke at one of their number who has made himself unpopular,
but they kept their distance.

At the dinner hour shortly before noon, the whole crowd of the labor
men, joined by Sru, drew off to a spot close to the tents, and,
squatting in a ring, set to on their food.

Work was always knocked off in the middle of the day, Floyd returning
to the house for a siesta. He came now toward Isbel, intending to help
her to push the dinghy off, but instead of rising, she made him sit
down beside her.

"See them," said she. "They sit all together and like that." She made a
ring on the sand with her finger. "I go and hear what they say if you
wait. It is no good when they sit like that all together and talk while
they eat----Wait!"

She rose up and walked along the beach edge, picking up shells. Then
she drew close to the grove and vanished into it. Some of the tents
were situated close up to the grove, and the hands were seated eating
and talking close to the tent. They looked after Isbel as she was
walking along the beach edge. When she disappeared, they seemed to
forget her, and went on with their palaver. Floyd waited. Five minutes
later he saw the form of the girl away out from among the trees. She
walked right down to the edge of the lagoon, and then came along toward
Floyd, still picking up an occasional shell.

When she reached him she showed him the shells.

"No good," said she. "But look at them so they may see."

Floyd handled the shells and pretended to admire them; then she placed
them in the dinghy and they pushed her off.

It was not till they reached the middle of the lagoon that she told of
what she had done, and what she had heard.

She had crept through the grove to the back of one of the tents, and
listened to the chatter that had come clearly heard on the slight wind
that was blowing toward the grove.

Something was afoot, and whatever they were going to do was to be done
that night. From what Isbel gathered, an attack was to be made on them,
and the attackers would cross the lagoon on the raft.

Floyd, who was rowing, pulled in his sculls.

"The raft," said he. "I never thought of that. They can get twenty
chaps on to it. We must stop this. It is going to be war anyhow, so we
may as well strike first."

He told Isbel the fear that had suddenly occurred to him, and she
laughed. Then taking to the sculls again, he rowed on as hard as he
could, till they reached their destination.

Leaving Isbel to look after the dinghy, he ran up to the house and came
back with a hammer, a big nail, and a coil of rope. Then they pushed
off again, making for the fishing camp. The raft, when not in use, was
moored by a rope to a spur of coral jutting out from the sand.

As they approached, they could see the labor men still seated at their
pow-wow. Heads were turned as the dinghy drew near to the raft, but not
a man moved till Isbel, with a rifle in one hand and a knife in the
other, cut the mooring rope.

Then a yell rose up, and the whole crowd, rising like one man, came
racing down to the water's edge, picking up stones as they ran, while
some of them, turning, made off for the fish spears in the tents.

While Isbel had been cutting the rope, Floyd, with three blows of the
hammer, had driven the big nail into one of the logs, tied the rope to
it, tied the other end of the rope to the rings in the stern of the
dinghy, and was now sculling for his life. The heavy raft moved slowly,
and the crowd on shore, held up for a moment by the water, were just
taking to it when Isbel's rifle rang out, and the foremost of them,
hit through the shoulder, sat down with a yell on the sand. The rush
was broken for a moment, and Floyd, as he tugged at the sculls, saw a
sight that would have made him laugh, had he been watching from a place
of safety.

The balked ones literally danced on the sands. Fury drove them, but
fright held them, and the dance was the result till the fellows with
the fish spears made their appearance, racing down from the tents.

Floyd instantly put the dinghy alongside the raft, and, springing on to
it, took the rifle from the girl, while she, getting into the dinghy,
took the sculls and went on with the towing.

Floyd dropped the first spearman twenty paces from the water's edge,
and he fell on his belly, while the spear slithered along the beach.

The second spearman, struck fair in the forehead, flung out his arms
and fell on his back. The spear, striking the sand with its butt, stood
upright and quivering, the point, still dark with fish blood, impotent
and pointing to the sky.

It was enough for the others. They broke and ran, and, as they ran,
Floyd fired on them, catching one fellow through the leg and knocking a
tuft of hair off another's head.

In thirty seconds the beach was clear.

Floyd through it all had acted almost automatically and as if firing at
a target. The whole business seemed strangely impersonal and unreal.
That he should be standing there, killing men like flies, seemed part
of the everyday business of life, and yet, at the back of his mind,
something was crying out against it all, a voice small as though it had
traveled from a thousand miles away, and without substance or sound or
weight in effect on his mind.

He stood with the taste of the cartridge smoke in his mouth, staring
at the beach, while from behind him he could hear the sound of the
sculls in the rowlocks as Isbel strained at the oars.

They were now well out from the shore, and he took his place in the
boat at the sculls, while Isbel got on the raft.

The beach they were leaving was all trodden up, and the bodies of the
two dead men lay, one huddled up as though he were asleep, the other
spread-eagled and looking like a brown starfish, the spear he had been
carrying so valiantly standing beside him, barb pointing to the sky.

The light wind was blowing the dry sand in little eddies, and under
the blazing sunlight the salt white beach and the emerald shallows of
the lagoon made a dazzling picture. Nothing could seem farther removed
from death or the thought of death than this brilliant scene, where the
slain were lying unburied and Death himself was watching from the grove
of trees that formed its background.

Isbel stood on the raft as he towed it, her hand shading her eyes, her
gaze fixed on the shore.

Floyd, recalling her horror of the hanging and the effect it produced
upon her, could not help wondering at her attitude now, till he
remembered the difference between the cold-blooded execution of a man
and the killing of a man in self-defense.

When they had reached the middle of the lagoon, she turned from gazing
at the shore and sat down on the raft. They did not speak to one
another till the dinghy was landed and the raft moored by a long rope
which they tied to one of the seats of the quarter boat, which was
lying high and dry on the sand.

"Well," said Floyd, when this was finished, "we are in for it now,
Isbel, you and I. These fellows won't sit down and do nothing, or, if
they do, I am greatly mistaken."

"No," said Isbel, "they will try to kill us." She said it quite simply,
as though she were talking of some matter of little moment.

"And we'll try to stop them," said Floyd, with a laugh. It is the sign
mark of the Anglo-Saxon and Celts and all breeds that spring from their
mixture, that they go laughing into battle, die jesting, and carve
their enemies with epigrams as well as swords; battle brings a levity
of spirit that in its turn brings victory, and Floyd, now that war was
declared, moved lightly and felt a liveliness at heart such as he had
not experienced since boyhood.

He had destroyed the enemy's fleet, but he had not destroyed their land
forces, and worse than all, he had not put their general out of action.

Sru was still alive, and he was more dangerous than all the others.

When the firing had begun, Sru had flung himself flat on his stomach on
the sand, and from that position had yelled his orders. It was evident
that he was the directing spirit of the whole business, and it was
nearly certain that he would not take defeat lying down.

The weak position of the house as a defensive stronghold lay in its
proximity to the grove and the fact that it did not command the
approach to this bit of the island by way of the reef. The back of the
building was close up to the trees, and, though there were chinks that
made good loopholes for firing through, the trees, and especially
their shadow by night, gave good cover for an attacking party.

Then there was the prospect of a siege. Floyd, taking his seat on the
sand in the shade of the trees, called to Isbel to sit down beside him.

Then they held a council of war.

"How many fish spears have those fellows got, Isbel?" asked he.

"Many," replied Isbel. "They were making them a long time ago--too many
for fishing."

"You mean they were made for the purpose of attacking us--I mean, of
attacking me, for you were with them then?"

Isbel nodded.

"Yes, but I did not know. I thought then it was for the fishing. Now
I know better. It was Sru who told them to make more spears, and they
would all get together and talk. I had no feeling at all that it was
wrong, else I would have listened. But now I see it all."

This cast even a darker light on Sru. He must have been plotting all
along and from the first. Plotting to seize Isbel for himself, kill the
only white man on the place, and seize all the valuables he could find.
That was doubtless his plan of campaign. As to the far future, and how
he was to escape from the island and from punishment, he was unlikely
to have made any plan. The savage view is a short view, and is mainly
occupied by immediate desires and the means of gratifying them. It is
only the trained intelligence that forecasts and lays plans only to be
carried out in the far future.

Sru wanted Isbel, and tobacco more than he could use, knives for which
he had no use, firearms to glut his desire for lethal weapons, printed
cotton, and the satisfaction of the lust to kill. He most likely
promised himself Floyd served up roasted in plantain leaves, for he
belonged to the man-eating order of Solomanders. So in his dark mind he
had constructed a scheme for getting these things and satisfying these
desires, and had carried out his scheme while working in amity with the
man he intended to destroy.

His military genius had not proved itself on a par with his genius for
villainy, but he had the numbers, while Floyd only had the rifles, for
rifles, even though they be Winchesters, firing five shots apiece, are
of limited use without men behind them.

From the edge of the grove bordering the rough coral of the reef a good
lookout could be kept toward the fishing ground. From here the lagoon,
exclusive of the segment, including the reef opening, could be watched.

One could see the fishing camp and the whole of the roof leading from
it. Standing here, one could command with a rifle all that strip of
rough and broken coral that made a natural defense, and along which an
attacking force must come, if it wished to reach the house by land.

Floyd determined that this was the point where watch must be kept by
night. The coral, though rough and sharp here and there as knives,
was not impassable to a determined foe. Isbel had got along it that
time she ran away, and these fellows, with foot soles like leather and
nerves insensitive to cuts and falls, could do what she had done.

He posted Isbel now to keep watch, while, going back to the house, he
made preparations for a possible siege.

Taking the tarpaulin from the cache, he made a collection of all the
tinned food that came first to hand. There were two bags of ship's
bread still left, and these, with the tins of bully beef, potatoes,
and so forth, he carried to the house. Then he filled two of the water
beakers at the well and placed them in the main room of the building.

Then he remembered the albini rifles. These, with their ammunition,
were stored separately, and the conveyance of them would have meant
a considerable amount of labor and time. He took only the ammunition
which was made up in four large parcels. These he carted down to the
dinghy, rowed her out into five fathom of water, and dumped the parcels
in the lagoon.

The bottom of the lagoon where he dumped them was pretty rough coral,
so they would not be shifted much by the tide, and could be fished up
later on.

Having completed all these preparations, he rejoined Isbel at the
lookout post.

It was late in the afternoon now, and neither of them had eaten
anything since morning, so he sent Isbel to the house to get some food,
and, taking his seat with his back to a tree, waited her return.

Alone like this, he sat with his eyes fixed on the enemy's country, on
the lookout for any sign of movement on their part. He had brought the
telescope with him, and used it now and then without effect. Through
it he could see the fishing beach and the bodies still lying upon it,
the spear, sticking upright from the sand, the trodden-up sand, and the
deserted tents. That was all. There was no sign of the enemy, who were
no doubt hiding in the grove behind the tents, or on the reef beyond
the grove.

He argued that they must have been considerably scared to have effaced
themselves in this fashion, yet he knew enough of savages to prevent
him from building too much on moral effect. They might be scared now,
but the effect would wear off, and the desire for revenge and blood and
loot reassert itself. Even now, though they were in hiding, they were
doubtless holding a powwow, with Sru as chairman.

The position was bad. The pearl fishing had ceased, the island was
in a state of war, there could be no peace or parleying with the
enemy simply because there could be no trust placed in them while Sru
was alive and active. At best, they could hold their own only by a
continuous watch and defensive until Schumer returned. But Schumer
might be delayed; he might never come back, the _Southern Cross_ might
even now be lying at the bottom of the Pacific, or hove up on some reef
a thousand miles away from the Island of Pearls. As this thought came
to him, he cast his eyes across the great space of sea visible on the
ocean side of the reef. The sea, in the late afternoon light, lay calm
but for the gentle swell that heaved it shoreward, but he knew well the
treachery of that sea, of all seas the most fair--and faithless.

He was aroused from his thoughts by Isbel, who had returned, bringing
him some food. She had also brought with her a rifle and some more
ammunition. As she stood with the gun in her hand, gazing over toward
the fishing camp, Floyd watched her, wondering at the change in her
and the difference between this figure and the Isbel he had known at
first--the girl he had seen that day of his first landing on the
island.

Even during the last couple of days she had changed. Nothing makes for
the development of the best and the worst in us like war. The struggle
for existence, brought to a flaming point, is the true fire assay for
character. Not only does the human soul develop in this ordeal, but the
human being ages. Isbel, since the morning of the day before, seemed a
year older, and Floyd's boyish character had taken on a sternness and
received a solidification that ten years of ordinary life might not
have effected.

She sat down beside him, and they ate the food she had brought, talking
little, and each ever on the watch for any movement of the enemy. There
was nothing. Nothing but the gulls flying in the blue, and the waves
breaking on the coral and the wind moving the foliage of the distant
trees.

The island might have been deserted but for their presence and those
brown spots lying on the sand of the distant beach.




CHAPTER XXII

THE GREAT FIGHT


No fires were lit on the fishing beach that evening, nor did the wind
from across the lagoon bring any sound of singing from the fishermen.

Floyd remained at the lookout post while Isbel, returning to the house,
put everything in order and gave a last touch to the defenses and a
last look around. Then she returned and took her place beside him.

The moon, stronger to-night, yellow and brilliant, hung in the
apple-green dusk of the eastern sky. It looked exactly like the quarter
of a crystallized orange; then, as the sky steadily and swiftly
darkened, it lost its yellow tinge and became a sickle of frosted
silver.

The light was powerful enough to sparkle up the whole lagoon and show
the reef like a curving gray road set on either side with the lagoon
water and the foam of the sea.

The fishing beach showed clearly, and the grove, even the tents could
be made out as gray flecks against the darkness of the trees, but sign
of life there was none.

"I would like it better if we could see more of them," said Floyd.
"They are a lot too quiet."

"They will come to-night, I think," said Isbel. "They are hiding now
and talking. Sru will lead them."

Floyd laughed. "He led them finely on the beach over there this
afternoon," said he, "lying on his stomach all the time!"

"That is why I fear him," said Isbel. "He is very clever; the others
are not clever, but they are good to fight. Sru is the head; they are
the hands. Sru is a devil."

"You did not know what Sru was that time you left me and went back to
them," said he.

"No," replied Isbel; "I thought he was good then. He said to me: 'Why
not come back to your own people?' The words he said to me grew in my
mind like seeds in the ground. I did not know you then. I thought you
were the same as Schumer."

"You know me now."

"Yes," replied Isbel, "I know you now."

He could see her profile against the stars and the line of her
delicately shaped head. She was sitting with her hands about her knees,
in just the same position as on the day when, drawing near the beach,
Schumer had stood to receive him, and Isbel had sat watching, seemingly
indifferent, gazing at him with those eyes whose gaze held so much of
the unknown.

She wore a flower in her hair that day, and she wore a flower in her
hair to-night, a perfumed blossom plucked as she was passing through
the grove. The scent of it came to him with a trace of the hot,
gorse-like perfume of her hair, and for a moment he forgot Sru, the
island, the fight on the beach, and the whole desperate position. For a
moment only. As they sat beneath the stars, watching the moonlight grow
stronger upon the lagoon water and the reef, suddenly from away out
there came a cry like the sudden clamoring of sea fowl. A sound fierce
and sharp and with the ring of triumph in it. The invisibility of the
enemy and the absolute silence they had maintained up till now lent the
sound a weird significance.

"They are starting," said Floyd.

Isbel nodded. She said nothing; she was listening. Then she said: "They
will have been talking, all sitting round as they were to-day. Sru will
have been making plans to come here and kill us. Then when all their
minds went together like men with spears they shouted like that and
jumped to their feet and started."

She spoke like a person who was watching it all in some magic glass,
slowly and in a dreamy manner and with a detachment as though what she
were viewing had nothing to do with them.

"They'll start more before I have done with them," said Floyd viciously.

The events of the day, the tension of waiting, and that shout, cruel as
a barbed spear coming out of the night, had raised the fierce fighting
spirit of his race, a spirit all the more potent and terrible from the
underlying sobriety that tempers its fierceness and levity.

"It's funny to think we may be knocked out before the sun rises again,"
said he. "What do you think happens to a man when he's dead, Isbel?"

"I don't know. It is, I think, all the same as before he is born. He
doesn't know."

"That's what I have often thought myself," said he. "Look! What is
that?"

Away toward the far end of the reef they saw moving points upon the
coral. Huge insects seemed crawling here and there, aimlessly at
first, and now approaching nearer.

"They are coming," said Floyd, seizing a rifle. "They are spreading
themselves out, and that confounded coral gives them good sheltering
places. We must stop them if possible."

He stood up, and, putting the rifle to his shoulder, aimed it at the
nearest moving spot and fired. He continued blazing away till the
chambers were empty. The movement ceased, but almost immediately it
recommenced, and now they could see the brown figures crouching and
crawling, spread out fanwise, taking cover at every projection, and
always advancing closer.

It was almost impossible to fire effectively, owing to the uncertain
light and the fact that at the first flash every figure fell flat or
dodged behind cover.

Between the rough coral and the point where they stood lay forty yards
or so of smooth ground, across which the final rush would be made.

"It seems we can't stop them," said Floyd as he emptied the contents of
the second rifle, while the girl reloaded, "and once they get near the
edge of that smooth bit they'll rush us. Get everything together when I
give the word and make back for the house. Ah, I had one then!"

A shriek following the shot he had just fired told of a hit, but
it did not stop the advance. On the contrary, the wretches had now
reached the psychological point, the point where instinct told them
collectively that a rush must surely succeed, and where optimism told
them individually that it was the next man who would be hit.

They left cover boldly, and, heedless of the rough coral, of the
pitfalls and sharp edges, leaped to the attack like bounding kangaroos.

Floyd bagged two of them with his two last shots; then calling to
Isbel, who had also been firing, he led the way through the trees
toward the house.

Isbel, with forethought, had lit the lamp in the main room, and the
glow of it shining through the loopholes in the walls showed them their
way. Once inside, they barred the door, placed the guns on the table,
and began to reload.

They did not speak a word. Coolly and swiftly they shoved the
cartridges in their places, and then, each with a rifle, stood at
attention to the hell of voices from outside.

Never could Floyd have believed that human beings were capable of such
sounds of ferocity and malevolence. Only in the long boo-hoo of the
storm that had torn the bones of the _Tonga_ to pieces had he heard
anything like this outburst.

Fists and feet were thundering at the door, spear points poking through
the openings in the walls, but all that was nothing to the uproar of
the voices. The calling of monkeys and the shrieks of parrots seemed
mixed with the howl of hyenas, and more terrible than these came an
incessant, fierce whistling, harsh as the whistling of steam.

Floyd was less a philosopher than a man of action, yet even so, and
though he had no time for philosophy in such a crisis, his mind for a
moment was held by one stupendous fact--these fiends storming the house
were not devils just let loose from the infernal regions; they were the
"hands."

The men he had worked with and overseen, pleasant and childlike
creatures full of fun and laughter, most of them. It is true that many
of them had, when in repose, that hard, set expression which seems to
have come from ages of watching across the sun blaze on the sea, but
their faces could express good humor, one might say, fluently, and as
they had always been well treated on the island they had never cause to
express anything else.

When Floyd had seen them first on the day that he and Schumer had
boarded the _Southern Cross_ they had struck him as a very hard lot,
and a good deal of that expression had come from the shell nose rings
and the slit ear lobes distinguishing most of them; as he got to
know them better that impression became less vivid. Yet it had been
the right one. The shell nose rings and split ear lobes were surely
"features" inasmuch as they spoke of ages and ages of savagery, blood,
and darkness.

Yet the second impression had been right in its way. Despite all their
savagery these people were human, had in them a certain bonhomie and
sense of humor, and possessed many of those traits which we associate
with the word "gentleman." The latter curious fact had been impressed
on Floyd several times in his dealings with them. Sru, for instance,
the worst of the lot, though he had probably dined off his enemy in his
time, and though he had planned and plotted murder, would not have hurt
your feelings for the world by word or gesture. Floyd, having reloaded,
disregarding the door toward which the main attack seemed directed,
chose loopholes near the ones through which the spear points were being
thrust, and fired with effect, to judge by the sounds that followed
the shots. Isbel, crawling and creeping close to the walls, seized on
the spear shafts, and, using all her weight, broke them off.

She managed to break three like this, and then returned to the loading.
Dark, cool, swift, and absolutely fearless, she seemed in these
mad minutes the very spirit of destruction. They had ammunition in
abundance, and when she was not engaged in reloading for Floyd she
used one of the revolvers herself. The smoke of the firing blown back
through the loopholes made a haze round the steadily burning lamp, near
which, from the ceiling, a big spider was swinging from his thread,
laying his nets utterly undisturbed by the sounds and fumes of the
fight.

Then gradually the attack died down. The gentry outside had exhausted
themselves mostly by yelling; they had done no damage and had received
several injuries. Had they possessed a single firearm they might
have made the position untenable, but they had nothing, and they
had evidently come to recognize the fact that poking spears through
loopholes was useless work, besides being dangerous.

Floyd wiped his brow with his coat sleeve.

"The fools have never thought of forcing the door," said he; "they
might have done it with that crowbar. You remember the piece of iron I
used to break open the big clamshell. They never thought of that. They
came with spears only, and there is nothing over on this side they can
use to force the door with. Let's hope they won't remember about it."

"Listen!" said Isbel.

Sounds were coming from the grove at the back of the house, sounds
more of a jubilant than a warlike nature.

Floyd knitted his brow; then his face cleared.

"I know what it is," said he. "They have got at the cache."

The fragment of moon low down in the west lit the beach, and very soon
Floyd's suspicion was justified. Peeping through the loopholes of the
front wall, they saw the whole band of the enemy debouching on the
sands away to the left, and every man laden with loot.

Some were carrying bolts of cloth, and others cases of provisions and
boxes of tobacco.

They thought themselves beyond rifle range, and, like children, they
wanted to examine their treasures. Floyd, assured that none of them had
remained behind, opened the door, and, rifle in hand, stood watching
them. Then he opened fire, and they scattered, leaving their treasures
on the sand. Some ran along the lagoon edge, toward the reef opening;
one dashed right into the water and swam in the same direction, while
the main body made back for the shelter of the grove.

Not one of them was hit as far as he could see, and the men who had
made toward the reef opening would return by the seaward side of the
reef.

"I almost wish I had left them alone," said he. "It will only make them
more vicious. The sight of that stuff lying there will keep them going.
However, it is too late to bother now."

He turned back to the house and shut the door. He had been speaking to
Isbel, and fancied her to be just behind him. She was not. She was at
the table, quietly preparing some food. He noticed now for the first
time that the flower was still in her hair. It looked dark purple in
the lamplight. And now for a moment a strange sensation stole over
him, as though the whole of the business were a fantastic dream, a
sensation of unreality that infected even his own being. It passed,
and, coming to the table where the food was now lying beside the rifles
and ammunition, he drew one of the chairs up and sat down sideways to
the board.

Isbel remained standing, and as they ate they talked, and what they
said had little to do with the main business in hand. It was not
a thing to be talked about. The situation was hopeless, if ever a
situation was hopeless, and no plan had yet appeared to either of them
by which their position could be bettered.

Ideas had come to Floyd only to be dismissed as useless, the idea, for
instance, of making a dash from the house and taking to the dinghy,
which they could easily push off. That would not help them in the
least, since there was no place of safety to which the dinghy could
take them. Their assailants would not expose themselves to rifle fire
by day, and by night they would attack as they had done before.

The only spot where they could put up a defense for any time would be
the pierhead at the break on the opposite side of the reef, and there
they would be cut off from all food supplies.

"It's a good thing we have plenty of food here and water," said Floyd.
"We have water enough for a week and food for a fortnight. I expect
those fellows will get back to the fishing camp to-morrow and leave us
alone."

He said it for the sake of saying something, but Isbel shook her head.
She knew the men they had to deal with.

"They will never leave us till we kill them or they kill us," said she,
clearing the things from the table. "Or," she finished, "till we kill
Sru."

"Yes," said Floyd, "he's the center of the whole business. Well, we
will do our best to nail him."

He rose up and went to one of the loopholes by the door. Peeping
through, he could see the trade goods still lying on the sands, but not
a sign of the enemy.

One of the most disturbing things in this fight was the manner in
which the attackers would suddenly efface themselves, as after the
first fight over on the fishing beach. They had vanished now as though
annihilated, leaving neither outpost nor sign to hint of what plan they
might be brewing.

The moon was very low down over the western reef. It was close to dawn,
and soon the sun would be flooding the world with light. If another
attack was in preparation it would not be long delayed, yet not a sound
came to indicate an approach to the house.

"All the same they will come," said Isbel, "and they will come before
day."

"You think so?" asked Floyd.

Isbel nodded. She had taken a seat on one of the chairs, and was
sitting with her hands clasping her knees. Floyd, who had taken his
seat at the table, was leaning his arms upon it and following with his
eyes the graining of the wood.

The spider overhead, who had finished making, or maybe repairing, his
net, had just fallen on luck; a long-legged fly that had been flitting
about the rafters was his prisoner.

The fly, caught by a few strands of the infernal web, was making a
fierce resistance. It was caught by one of its legs and by the body.
The wings were free, and the buzz of their vibration made Floyd look up.

Then, for something to do, he rose and examined the thing more closely.
Isbel rose, too.

The spider was quite patient about his work, and horribly scientific
in his methods. The buzzing wings did not disturb him in the least. He
ascended to the rafter which was his base, and then came down again,
fixed a thread to one of his victim's legs, and reascended. He was
binding the legs together, making everything absolutely secure before
the final assault and the moment when he would bury his fangs in his
prey and suck its blood.

Watching the little tragedy, Floyd and Isbel for a moment almost forgot
their own position. Then Floyd, with a laugh, raised his finger and
broke the strands of the web, releasing the fly.

"It was in about as bad a position as we are," said he. "Maybe it's an
omen."

Isbel did not know what the word "omen" meant, nor did she ask, for at
that moment, as they stood in silence watching the released one trying
its wings again, a sound coming from the back of the house made them
turn.

A soft, stealthy sound, as though people were creeping close to the
wall, and now and then the sharp snap of some stick of the undergrowth
trodden upon and broken.

Floyd, springing to the table, seized a revolver and began firing
through the loophole of the back wall. He fired six shots at random;
then he paused to listen.

The sound continued. The men outside were evidently crouching at
whatever work they were on, and so were safe and below the level of the
loopholes.

"Brutes!" said he. "There is no chance of reaching them, but what on
earth can they be about?"

Isbel, who had been peeping through one of the chinks near the door,
came toward him.

"The day has broken," said she.




CHAPTER XXIII

DAYBREAK


Even as she spoke the words, and as though in answer to the question
he had asked, a faint smell of burning filled the air of the room, and
through one of the chinks, like a little gray snake, a wreath of smoke
coiled upward, clinging to the woodwork.

"So that's what they were doing!" cried Floyd. "They have fired the
house."

Through every chink and crevice a curl of smoke was licking upward, and
now came the sharp, crackling sound of brushwood burning and the snap
and hiss of sticks blazing alight.

The air of the room was already turned to a gray haze of smoke, smoke
that made the eyes smart, the smoke of burning hibiscus and poison oak
and bay cedar bush, choking and suffocating fumes, followed now by
flames as the wretches outside flung coconut shells on the fire, shells
that blazed like flare lamps once ignited.

"The place will burn like a torch," said Floyd, "once the scantling
gets alight. Listen! What's that above? They have got on the roof; they
are lighting it. We must quit and make a dash for the dinghy. It's our
only chance. Wait!"

He rushed into the smaller room, and returned with something in his
hands. It was the tin box holding the pearls.

He opened it, emptied the contents wrapped in cotton wool, and filled
his pockets.

"I'm not going to leave these behind," said he, speaking as if
to himself. Then to Isbel: "Take a revolver and this package of
ammunition. I'll take the other and a rifle. Unbar the door and run
first. Don't stop to fire unless you can't help. Hark! What's that?"

A sound like a sharp clap of thunder shook the air and was followed by
a yell from the grove behind the house and from the beach on either
side.

"Open the door!" said Floyd.

Isbel undid the bars, and flung the door wide. Instantly the draft
settling from the grove filled the place with volumes of smoke.

"Now," said Floyd, "run!"

They dashed out of the house, across the beach, running, half blind
with the effects of the smoke. They had expected a flight of spears.
They found instead an empty beach, full dawn, and a reef over which the
last of their assailants were scrambling.

A great white cloud filled the break of the reef. It was the _Southern
Cross_ coming in with a fair wind and a flooding tide.

The first rays of the sun were on her topsails, which the wind scarcely
filled. The water under her was still violet with night. White gulls,
rose-colored gulls, golden gulls, as the sunrise took them, were
flocking and screaming in the pale sapphire above her, schooner, gulls,
lagoon, and sky making a picture more lovely than a dream.

As she cleared the reef entrance and rounded to her anchorage, the wind
spilling out of her sails, a plume of smoke broke from her, and again
the report of a gun shook the island.

As it died away the splash of the anchor was followed by a roar of the
chain through the hawse pipe, and the _Southern Cross_, her long, long
journey over, lay at her moorings swinging to the incoming tide.

Isbel turned to Floyd and clung to him, weeping. All her courage had
suddenly vanished now that there was no need for it.

Floyd, holding her tight in his arms, kissed her black, perfumed hair.
The flower had fallen, but a trace of its scent remained.

It was the moment of his life, and then she drew away from him, cast
one dark glance obliquely up at him, and stood with her breast heaving
and both hands shading her eyes.

She was looking over the water in the direction of the _Southern Cross_.

The schooner was lowering a boat. It was the whaleboat, and Floyd saw
the men tumbling into her, followed by a white-clad figure--Schumer.

Even at that distance he recognized Schumer. Following Schumer came
another white-clad figure, evidently a European.

Besides the two white men there were twelve hands in the boat, fourteen
in all, and as she approached rapidly, urged by the long ash sweeps,
Floyd saw the rifles with which the men were armed, the barrels showing
as they rested, muzzle upward, by the seats.

As the boat came ashore Schumer, from his place in the stern sheets,
waved his hand to Floyd. Then the fellows, jumping out, beached the
boat, and Schumer, following them, set foot on the sand.

He did not waste words.

He had seen the whole business at a glance, and he had brought canvas
buckets. Dense columns of smoke were rising from the back part of
the house, but the roof had fortunately not caught alight. The crew
had their orders, and in a moment they were filling the buckets and
carrying them up to the grove while Schumer, Floyd, and the newcomer
helped and superintended.

The mutineers had piled stacks of underwood, sticks, and all the
rubbish they could find against the house wall. The stuff was burning
with more smoke than flame, and the fire had fortunately taken no
considerable hold on the building. They kicked the rubbish aside, flung
water on the wall, and in twenty minutes or so the situation was saved.

Isbel had been posted by Schumer as a lookout in case the enemy should
return. She had not contented herself by standing by as a watch, but
had gone as far as the grove end, from where the reef could be seen up
to the pierhead. She had seen nothing. The whole crowd of the enemy, in
fact, had scattered back to the fishing camp by the road they had come
the night before, and Schumer, standing now on the beach, could see
them through his glass congregated about the tents.

Then he turned to Floyd. "Well," said he, "you seem to have had a
lively time. What was the bother?"

Floyd explained in a few words, and, Isbel not being by, told of the
trouble with Sru.

"He was plotting mischief all the time," said Floyd, "and this is the
result."

"Well," said Schumer, "we will deal with the gentleman all in good
time. What luck have you had with the pearls?"

Floyd told.

Taking off his coat, and laying it on the sands, he began to remove the
pearls, in their casings of cotton wool, from the pockets. He explained
why he had placed them there, and, as he went on with the work, Schumer
and the stranger, standing by, looked on.

Schumer up to this had been too busy to introduce the newcomer. He did
so now.

"This is Captain Hakluyt," said he. "He's in this venture, as I will
explain to you afterward. His firm owns the _Southern Cross_."

Floyd looked up, and nodded to Hakluyt.

The new man's face was not a certificate of character. There are faces
that repel at first sight, and Hakluyt's was one of them.

He had the appearance, not so much of a man who was ill, but of a man
who never enjoyed good health. Anæmic looking despite his exposure to
sun and wind, he seemed unable to bear either the full light of the
sun or a full gaze. He was continually blinking, and to Floyd in that
moment he suggested vividly the idea of a sick owl.

It was the curve of the nose and the blinking of the eyelids that
produced this impression. The eyes themselves were not at all owllike,
being small and set close together.

The whole figure of the man matched his face, slight and mean, with
shoulders sloping like the shoulders of a champagne bottle. It was a
figure that no tailor could improve.

His hands, as he stood with the thumbs in the armholes of his
waistcoat, showed lean and clawlike, birdlike. Birdlike is the term
best suited for the whole man; light, restless, peering, and without
grace, for it is a fact that the animal and the bird translated into
human terms lose both grace and nobility. Man standing or falling by
his approach or recession to the type, man.

As Floyd looked up from his work he took in Hakluyt's appearance fully
for the first time, and the idea that this man was the new partner in
their concern filled him with repulsion and uneasiness.

He had been on the point of exposing the pearls triumphantly to view,
but in a flash he altered his decision, and, asking them to wait for a
moment, left his work and ran up to the house for the tin cash box from
which he had taken them.

He placed it on the sand, and packing in the precious
cotton-wool-covered parcels, closed the lid and handed it to Schumer.

"We can examine them afterward," said he. "Keep them for the present.
They are not a bad lot, but they might be better."

"We'll put them in the house," replied Schumer. "I've got a safe
on board; brought it from Sydney, but I can't get it ashore till
to-morrow. Meanwhile they'll be all right in the house. Well, Hakluyt,
what do you think of the island?"

Hakluyt looked about him as though taking stock of the place for the
first time.

"It is not so bad," said he. "It is a fair bit of a lagoon, but it
might be bigger."

"Oh, it will be big enough for us," replied Schumer, with a laugh.
"Come up to the house with me, Floyd, till I put this stuff away. I
want to have a talk with you."

They left Hakluyt, and walked up to the house.

"I say," said Floyd, "if that's our new man I don't like the look of
him."

Schumer laughed.

"He's not a beauty," said he, "but he's the best I could find. He's
Hakluyt & Son. He's the son; the father's dead. He's in a good way of
business as a shipowner and ship's chandler in Sydney. He has got the
money and the means to help us. I have drawn up a contract with him; he
gets a third share."

"A third share. That means that the total profits will be divided into
three parts. One for you, one for me, and one for Hakluyt."

"Just so," said Schumer, "and you pay me for the trade goods we salved
from the _Tonga_."

"Of course," said Floyd, "but it seems to me that Hakluyt ought to
stand in with me and pay something."

"I suggested that, but he refused. He would only come into the deal on
condition that he got a third share of the profits without deduction."

Floyd felt inclined to grumble at this. Hakluyt would have the benefit
of those goods or what was left of them, but he said nothing. He wanted
explanation on another point.

"How about the _Southern Cross_?" said he.

"In what way?"

"Well, we salved her, didn't we, or as good as salved her? Hakluyt
ought to pay for that."

"It was this way," replied Schumer. "Before coming into the venture he
wanted half profits. He gave me to understand that our connection with
the _Southern Cross_ was in no way a salving job, since the crew were
on board, and he said straight out that he would fight the matter in
the courts. Now, as he has lots of money to fight with, and we have
none, or next to none, I didn't see any sense in that. He said to me:
'I'll tell you what I'll do. In recognition of your trouble in bringing
the schooner back to Sydney, I'll be content to take only a third of
the profits in this pearling business. What's more, I will use the
schooner for it free of charge and victual and man her.'

"Now, that seemed to me a fair proposition, and I agreed to it. What do
you say?"

Floyd did not reply for a moment. He could come to no decision. The
whole thing was so intricate and the values involved were such unknown
qualities that at last he gave it up. If Schumer was satisfied it was
doubtless all right. Schumer knew more of business affairs than he did,
and it was better to leave it at that.

"Well," said he, "I suppose you couldn't do better, but it seems to
me Hakluyt won't do badly out of the business. Wait till I show you
something."

They had reached the house, and, taking the cash box from Schumer,
Floyd placed it on the table and opened it.

He carefully removed some of the contents till he came to the package
he was looking for; then, carefully removing the cotton wool from it,
he exposed the pink pearl.

"Heavens, man!" said Schumer. "Why didn't you tell me of this?"

"Wait!" said Floyd.

He took another small ball of wool from the box, unrolled the wool, and
held out the big white pearl.

Schumer laughed.

"Any more?" he asked.

"Not of that size," replied Floyd. "Well, what do you think of them?"

"Think of them? They are a fortune in themselves."

He carefully rolled them up again and replaced them in the box.

Meanwhile Floyd had been unpacking other specimens, which Schumer
examined in their turn. He seemed well pleased with the take since his
absence, as well he might be.

"I will have the safe brought ashore to-morrow," said he. "Meanwhile
they will be all right here. Put them all back and come on. We have to
tackle these scamps now and bring them to their senses. I don't want
any fighting, if possible, for that would mean killing more of them,
and we want them all for the fishery."

"Do you mean to say you are going to trust them to work again?"

"Of course I am. Why, man, it is nothing when one is working fellows
like these to have revolts and rows. You shouldn't have let them get
so much out of hand. I don't blame you, mind, for you are new to the
business, but in the first instance you should have dealt properly
with Sru. You should have shot him after that business about the girl.
Martial law is the only law by which you can hold your own in a case
like this. Well, we will see. Take your gun and come along."

They went out, and Schumer ordered the whaleboat to be manned.

Floyd for the first time recognized that the crew of the whaleboat were
the same Kanakas who had formed the original crew of the _Southern
Cross_. Mountain Joe was one of them. He saluted Floyd when he was
recognized, and then took his place as stroke oar. Each man had a rifle
and seemed to know how to use it, and they had all the stamp of men
reliant and trained to arms.

They were not the same men--viewed as fighting men--that Schumer had
taken away with him. He had done wonders with them in his absence, and
the thought suddenly occurred to Floyd: Did Schumer expect that there
would be trouble on the island during his absence? Did he train and arm
the crew of the _Southern Cross_ in view of this possible trouble?

It seemed so.

Then came another thought: Suppose you had been defeated and killed,
would not Schumer have benefited? There would have been one partner the
less, and ought he not to have warned you more especially as to the
danger of a revolt?

Schumer had, in fact, warned him casually to be on the lookout, but
his warning had chiefly to do with the cache and the necessity of
preventing its locality and contents from becoming known. He had not
dwelt on the matter of a possible revolt, nor had he prepared plans to
meet it.

Did he hope to return and find a clear field and his partner put out of
the way?

Floyd instantly dismissed the idea as unworthy of himself and Schumer.
He had no tittle of real evidence to support such an idea--yet it had
occurred to him.

There are some ideas that arise not from any concrete basis, but from
vague suggestions. This was one of them.

As they approached the fishing beach they could see the enemy
scuttering about in alarm. Fellows came out of the tents, shaded their
eyes for a second, and then darted off into the grove. In less than a
minute not a soul was in sight.

"There'll be no fighting," said Schumer as the boat came to the beach,
and they sprang out. "Floyd, you stay here with the men and I'll take
Mountain Joe up to the wood edge and have a palaver. I'll leave my gun
with you so they may see we've come for peace, not war. They are sure
to be peeping and spying from the trees."

He left the rifle, and, taking Joe with him, walked steadily up from
the lagoon edge to the grove. Twenty paces from the trees he stopped
and began to speak.

Floyd could hear his voice, and it was strange enough to see him
standing there and seemingly addressing the trees.

Mountain Joe also put in a word now and then as if on his own account.

The effect was absolutely negative, and Floyd expected to see them turn
and come back.

But Schumer knew the native mind and its ways, and he did not seem the
least disconcerted at his failure. He paused in his oration, walked up
and down a bit, and then began to talk again.

Presently, not from the trees before him, but from the trees at the
left-hand side of the grove, a native appeared. He stood for a moment,
now resting on one foot, now on the other. Then he said a few words, to
which Schumer replied.

They kept this up for a minute or so, and then, from the wood, another
native joined the first, then another and another.

"They are all right now," cried Schumer to Floyd. "Come up and help to
jaw them. Leave your gun behind."

Floyd handed his rifle to one of the men and came right up to the group
of natives before whom Schumer was now standing. He was talking to
them, to use his own expression, like a Dutch uncle. Talking as only he
knew how.

The Polynesian native, pick him up in most places, has a good deal of
humor in his composition. He can both feel and use sarcasm. He has over
and above this a certain bonhomie, a good spirit readily worked if one
knows how.

Schumer knew how. He did not speak them fair by any means. He told them
what was in his mind about them, told them they were pigs who would
have dashed to their own destruction but for his arrival, yet told them
it in a way that did not stir resentment.

These half-civilized creatures had been cast right back into savagery
by some influence beyond their control. Sru had not been the influence,
but he had worked it, just as a sorcerer might raise a devil.

Sru had not yet made his appearance. Schumer asked for him, and the
reply came that he was dead and lying over somewhere in the grove near
the house. One of the stray shots fired by Floyd while the brushwood
was being placed against the house wall had found Sru and sent him to
his last account.

"Well," said Schumer, "that's the best news we have had yet. It clears
up everything. You don't want to punish these fellows, do you? Seems to
me you have given them a pretty good grueling already, three dead and
several wounded."

"I don't want to punish them," said Floyd. "You can tell them I call it
quits. Sru was the man most to blame, and now he is dead. But there is
one man I have a grudge against--Timau--and I don't see him here."

"Timau," said Schumer. "Which one is that?"

"He's a fellow whose life I saved at a great deal of risk and trouble.
He stepped into one of those big clamshells and got seized, and I
managed to free him, but he's not here."

Schumer turned to the natives and asked them where Timau was; then he
translated to Floyd.

"It seems he wouldn't take part in the business because you had brought
him back from the dead."

"So I did, with artificial respiration."

"Just so--and Sru bound him and put him in one of the tents. He's there
now. We had better go and loose him."

They walked up to the tents, and there sure enough they found Timau
lying on his side and chewing tobacco. He had managed to get one arm
free and could have freed himself entirely had he taken the trouble.
He had not. He just lay there, chewing and waiting on events. He was
the laziest of the whole crowd employed on the fishery, and since his
return from death he seemed to take everything as a fatalist.

But he had refused to join in the attack on Floyd.

Schumer undid his bonds, and he stood up, stretched himself, grunted,
and walked off to join the others.

Schumer looked after him.

"He's a cool customer. Well, there's an end of the business. To-morrow
they will all be working again, except the dead men. Now let's get
back and bury Sru. We'll have to hunt for him in the grove. Then you
can come on board and we will have something to eat. You haven't had
breakfast?"

"Lord, no!" replied Floyd. "I had a sort of supper some time in the
night, but what I want most is sleep. I'll lie down and have a snooze
when we have finished up with Sru."

They came back to the house, and then started out to find what the
grove had to reveal to them.

The cache had been half rifled, but most of the goods that had been
taken were still lying on the sands and had not been injured.

Then they found Sru lying at the foot of an artus tree, a broken spear
in his hand. He was lying on his face, and he would not trouble them
any more.

Schumer buried him after a fashion of his own. He ordered two of the
crew to carry the deceased to the pierhead at the break in the reef and
cast him to the sharks.

"They'll look after him," said he.




CHAPTER XXIV

HAKLUYT


Next day work resumed as usual, Hakluyt assisting, or, at least,
standing by to watch the proceedings.

The mutineers had destroyed nothing. All the shell that had been taken
since the beginning of the work was intact, and the oysters that lay
awaiting search when the revolt broke out were still there, lying
where they had been left. As though fate wished to stimulate Hakluyt's
interest in the business on this the first day of resumption of work
the take proved to be exceptionally good. Three large pearls of good
size and form came to hand besides several of less value.

"You mustn't reckon every day's take by this," said Schumer. "Often
there's nothing much. In this business it's the take of a week or month
that counts."

"All the same it is good," said Hakluyt. He spoke as though there
were some obstruction in his nasal organ, and Floyd, listening to him
and watching him, felt more than ever the aversion for him that had
influenced him so powerfully on their first meeting.

Hakluyt watched all the proceedings just as a predatory bird
watches its prey. He stood with his thumbs in the armholes of his
waistcoat--his favorite attitude--a cigar in his mouth, and his panama
hat tilted back.

He had a habit of thrusting his head forward, tortoise-like--one
might have fancied that his neck was telescopic like the neck of a
tortoise--and continually he kept drumming on his chest with his finger
tips. On the middle finger of his left hand he wore a huge ring set
with a diamond, an adornment that did not match with the shabby suit
of white drill that flapped about him in the wind, showing to full
disadvantage the thinness of his legs and arms and the protuberance of
his stomach.

"That chap," thought Floyd to himself, "would do anything short of
murder--and maybe wouldn't stop at that."

Isbel also did not seem to have much liking for Hakluyt.

With the return of Schumer, Isbel had gone right back to her previous
position in the social scale of the island and also to her home in the
grove. She helped in the cooking as before, and she kept watch for
ships when Floyd and his companions were over at the fishing grounds,
but beyond that she had little to do with them.

From the moment of the landing of Schumer she had avoided Floyd. It was
as though a veil had suddenly fallen between them after that moment
when suddenly released from death she had clung to him as they stood
watching the _Southern Cross_ casting anchor. She had drawn away, and
now it was as though nothing had ever been between them at all, as
though they had never fought together and lived together and faced
death together.

Floyd, simple soul, could not understand her in the least. At first he
was perplexed, thought he had done something to offend her, and tried
to imagine what it could be. Then he sulked--turned his head away when
she drew near and avoided speaking to her.

One day, a week after the return of Schumer, he was on the windward
side of the reef behind the grove and the house. Schumer and Hakluyt
were over at the fishing camp. It was an hour before noon, and he had
finished the work he had been upon and was seated on a lump of coral
watching the breakers coming in, a wonderful vision of sunlit foam.

The breeze brought the spray almost to his feet, and a scent of ozone
and seaweed and salt that seemed to come from the very heart of the sea.

As he sat like this a shadow fell on the coral before him, and,
turning, he saw Isbel.

She sat down beside him.

He had been thinking of her, and nothing could have surprised him more
than this action of hers in coming and sitting beside him. He moved
slightly as though to make room for her, and then turned his face
seaward again.

A frigate bird was approaching the island, moving without an effort on
the wind. They watched it as it came along. Its shadow passed over them
and vanished, and Floyd, turning his head to take a last look at the
bird, found himself face to face with his companion.

Isbel had not spoken a word, but now, as their eyes met, her lips
moved as though she were whispering something to herself impossible
to say aloud. She seemed like a person in a trance, and her eyes,
wide-pupiled and fixed on those of her companion, seemed trying to
tell something impossible to tell by speech.

Next moment he had taken her in his arms. For a moment she resisted
slightly, as though that soul, strange and free as the soul of the sea
bird, were struggling feebly against the final capture of man.

Then she raised her lips to his.




CHAPTER XXV

ORDERED TO SYDNEY


Next morning Schumer took Floyd aside.

"Hakluyt is well pleased with the work here," said he. "He thinks the
prospects even better than I made them out to him, and now he wants to
go back."

"Does he?" said Floyd. The news came as a pleasant surprise.

"Yes, he has got his business in Sydney to attend to and he's keen on
getting back at once. Of course he goes in the _Southern Cross_, but he
can't go alone, for the schooner has to be brought back."

"To be sure."

"You must go with him," said Schumer. "There is no one else for the
job."

"I!" exclaimed Floyd.

"Yes, there is no one else. I have been away too long. In fact I only
got back in time to save the situation. You are a very good fellow,
Floyd, but you aren't much use for working natives. It's not your
business in life; it is mine."

"But see here," said the other, "why can't Hakluyt send the schooner
back with another man in charge? There are lots of men in Sydney who
could do the job."

"Yes, and what would that mean? Letting another man into our secrets.
Surely you are not against doing your share of the work."

"I!" cried Floyd, flushing. "Have I ever refused to do all in my power
to help? Of course I will go. Only, the thing has come on me as a
surprise, and, I will say it frankly, an unpleasant surprise. You say
Hakluyt wants to go back at once. Well, I think you might have told me
of it some days ago. You must have known all along."

"I did not," said Schumer. "Of course I knew he wanted to go, but I
did not know he wanted to go so soon. What does it matter? You have no
preparations to make."

"How about the navigating on the way back?" asked Floyd, ignoring the
last remark. "You had Hakluyt to help you coming, but if I am to come
back single-handed it seems to me I will be in a bad way."

"You will have Mountain Joe," replied Schumer. "I have given special
attention to that gentleman's education on the voyage to Sydney and
back. You remember he could work out a dead reckoning even when I took
him in hand. He was absolutely useless by himself, but under guidance
he could be quite useful. Well, he knows a lot more now, and if I could
get to Sydney with him as he was then, you can surely get back from
Sydney with him as he is now."

"Oh, I suppose that will be all right," said Floyd. "And what am I to
do in Sydney besides dumping Hakluyt there?"

"You will unlade the shell which I am sending and take in some more
provisions. The _Southern Cross_ wants an overhaul--that will take a
week or ten days--she wants some new spars and a few barnacles scraped
off her. We want a big lot of canned stuff, vegetables, and bully beef.
I'll talk to you to-night about that. Hakluyt is in the way of getting
it cheaper than we could if we were working alone."

"How long do you think we will have to stay in Sydney?"

"Oh, about three weeks or so."

"It will be over two months before I can get back."

"About that."

"And when exactly do you want me to start?"

"Oh, in a couple of days. It will take us that to get the shell aboard.
I am going to start on the work this morning. I'll get all the hands on
it, crew and fishermen both. We can get the stuff on board on the raft
and with the help of the whaleboat."

"Very well," said Floyd, "I'll go."

He turned away and walked along the lagoon edge. Always when Fortune
turned toward him she had something unpleasant to add to her gifts.
The pink pearl had been followed by the running away of Isbel, and the
great white pearl by the mutiny of the hands. Isbel had been given to
him only yesterday, and now he had to leave her.

Since yesterday he had lived in a state of extraordinary happiness.
Wonderland. To love and to find that you are loved. There is nothing
else. No dream can come near this reality. And now he had to leave her.

He crossed the reef, and stood looking out to sea. The Pacific lay
blazing beneath the morning light, blue beyond the sun dazzle and
heaving shoreward to burst in foam at his feet. The breeze came fresh
across it, vivid and full of life. Floyd loved the sea.

It had become part of his nature and part of his being. It was his
second mother. But to-day he was looking at it with fresh eyes. It was
no longer the sea; it was separation from all he cared for and all he
loved. He would have to leave Isbel and leave her with Schumer.

When he had landed on the island first, Schumer had impressed him
favorably, but little by little and by that slow process through which
a complex and illusive personality makes its quality known to a simple
and straightforward mind, he had come to the point of distrust as
regards Schumer.

He had no fear at all that Schumer would harm Isbel. Isbel was a person
who could well take care of herself, and Schumer, he distinctly felt,
was not a man dangerous to women. The instinctive feeling of danger
had to do with himself. He was a fifth wheel in Schumer's chariot, an
absorber of profits, and though he refused the thought that Schumer
might attempt to get rid of him, he could not refuse the instinct.

He felt suddenly surrounded by an atmosphere of danger none the less
disturbing from the fact that he could not tell from what point it
arose. He disliked this journey to Sydney, and he disliked Hakluyt even
more.

Brave as any man could be, he feared for his own safety, not for his
own sake, but for the sake of Isbel. Should anything happen to him what
would become of her?

And there was nothing he could do. He was completely in the grasp of
events. He could not refuse to perform this obvious duty that had
suddenly been laid down before him by Schumer. He could not take Isbel
with him, and he could not take any precautions as to his own safety
beyond simple watchfulness.

He turned back from the sea, and as he turned he saw Isbel. She was
standing at the edge of the grove, and the trees quite sheltered them
from the sight of the people by the house. He came toward her, and they
entered the grove together.

Close to the sea edge of the grove a huge tree had fallen. Rotten with
age, it had crashed its way through the lesser trees and lay like a
dead giant over which the undergrowth had cast its green skirts in
part. They sat down upon it, and Isbel, nestling up close beside him,
rested her head upon his shoulder.

Then he told her that he was going. Told her the whole thing and the
reasons that held him. Told her that the separation would only be for a
little while, and surely, surely he would come back, and as he talked
and explained he felt her shudder as a person shudders from the cold.




CHAPTER XXVI

GOOD-BY


All that morning and all that day Schumer kept the hands busy at
work bringing the shell across the lagoon and storing it aboard the
_Southern Cross_. Some of it was rafted over and some brought in the
whaleboat. Schumer superintended everything himself, and now that speed
was urgent he proved what he could do as a driver.

Never did a Yankee stevedore work a set of hands harder. His voice
acted as a whiplash, and his energy infected everybody.

Next day it was the same, so that at sundown the last of the shell was
on board, the locking bars secured, and nothing remained but to take on
the water.

"We can do that to-night," said Schumer, "and if this wind holds,
though there is not much of it, you will be able to start at sunup. It
will be slack tide about then. Now, if you will come up to the house, I
will give you the last details of what you have to do in Sydney. There
is nothing like having everything cut and dried."

They went up to the house, and Schumer at once plunged into accounts.
He had tabulated a list of all the stores required, and he had written
down the main points in Floyd's program, even to the address of a house
where he could stay.

Hakluyt looked on while the two men talked, and, when they had
finished, the three went out, Hakluyt and Schumer to see to the
watering of the vessel and Floyd to find Isbel.

It was a night of the full moon, a hot, almost windless, night filled
with the scent of flowers and the song of the reef.

The moon hung almost in the zenith, the apex of a pyramid of light, and
under the silent whiteness of the moon the island lay clipping the vast
pond of the lagoon in its arms as a mistress holds her lover.

Hakluyt and Schumer had taken the boat to fetch the water casks, and
from away out over the water came the sound of the oars. The fellows
over at the fishing camp were singing, untired by their day's work,
and now and then on a stronger puff of wind a snatch of their song
came over the lagoon water, and, just for a moment, as Floyd stood by
the water edge, all his trouble of mind lifted from him--for a moment.
The brilliant light, the beauty of the scene before him, the snatch of
song from the fishing camp, and the perfume of the flower-scented wind
seemed to open doors in his mind through which from some remote past
came happiness. The moonlight for a moment caught some magic from the
morning of the world. Then he turned and went toward the outer reef
edge, where Isbel was waiting for him.

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour before dawn the beach before the house was astir. The moon had
sunk, but the stars gave enough light to work by. The water was all
aboard, and now some coconuts, breadfruit, and taro roots were being
taken off. Floyd was directing operations. He had said good-by to
Isbel, who was nowhere to be seen. He sat in the stern sheets of the
fruit boat, steering, and when the stuff was transshipped he boarded
the _Southern Cross_ and sent the empty boat back for Schumer and
Hakluyt.

Schumer came on board, and stood chatting while the hands were at the
capstan bars getting the slack of the anchor chain in. Then when the
mainsail was being set and the hands were at the halyards, Schumer
slipped over the side into the boat and pushed off for shore.

As the anchor came up, Floyd, who was forward superintending the men,
left Joe to see to the securing of it and came aft to where Hakluyt was
standing by the wheel.

The dawn was now bright in a sky that showed scarcely a trace of
morning bank. It came over the reef and between the palms, whose trunks
stood like bars against the brightening east. It flooded the lagoon
as the schooner gathered way, and the great trapezium of the mainsail
showed a tip of rose gold as they passed the pierheads of the reef. On
the pierhead to port something showed white against the coral. It was
Isbel.

The _Southern Cross_ rose to the swell at the break of the reef just
as a horse rises to a low fence, the foam roared in her wake, and the
noise of it mixed with the clatter of the rudder chain as the fellow at
the wheel twirled the spokes. Floyd raised his hand, and Isbel signaled
in reply as the wind, now gaining its morning strength, pressed the
schooner over to the tune of straining cordage and creaking blocks.

Floyd, leaning on the after rail, looked backward. The little figure of
Isbel was no longer to be seen, blotted out by distance. Then distance
took the reef, leaving only a trace of palm tops above the blazing
water, and in an hour the Island of Pearls had vanished like a dream
beyond the edge of the sea.




CHAPTER XXVII

SYDNEY


Hakluyt, despite his appearance, was a very efficient schooner captain,
and as day followed day, Floyd's respect for him as a sailor rose more
and more. As a man, he disliked him just as much as ever.

It was not an active dislike. His temper never rose against him, for
Hakluyt, to give him his due, was perfectly easy to get on with. He
neither swore at the hands nor heckled the subordinate officer. On
the contrary, he seemed always endeavoring to make himself agreeable,
always anxious for smooth water. The dislike that Floyd had for him
was instinctive and beyond the reach of reason, but he did not show it
outwardly as he would have done had Hakluyt been difficult to get on
with.

The _Southern Cross_ was a good deal of a Dutch ship. Hakluyt hailed
originally from Amsterdam, and he brought the Dutch flavor with him.
He was an eternal cigar smoker, and the food and drink on board were
reminiscent of Holland, especially the De Kuyper. There was a certain
slackness also, and a go-as-you-please method of doing this foreign to
an English ship.

Yet she made good way without taking any risk. The great art of
schooner sailing as laid down by Hakluyt was formulated by him as
follows: "Carry all the canvas that you can without danger to your
sticks."

And this art implied not only good handling of your vessel, but
incessant weather watchfulness, at all events in the Pacific, where
squalls drop on you out of a perfectly fair sky.

Three weeks brought them to Sydney, and though it was not Floyd's first
acquaintance with the harbor which seems to have been made when the
gods were making harbors for great fleets that have vanished, it still
filled him with the same wonder and admiration and surprise.

They anchored close to McGinnis' wharf, and Floyd on the morning of his
arrival found himself a comparatively free man for a few days.

"Run round the town and amuse yourself," said Hakluyt. "Id is worth
seeing. Id is good to stretch one's legs after a voyage, but first come
to my place and I will show you over."

Hakluyt had two places, one on the wharves and the other an office on
Market Street.

The office was a dingy-looking place with wire blinds to the windows
inscribed with the legend "Hakluyt & Son" done in dingy gold.

The place on the wharf was much more lively and pleasing to the mind.

It was an enormous emporium where everything was sold that could
be wanted by a shipmaster. Here you could buy an oilskin coat or
the provisions for a voyage round the world. It was all the same to
Hakluyt. He could put you in the way of a spare anchor or a barrel of
petroleum or a slush tub with the same hand that dealt out tobacco and
preserved fruit. His storehouses were enormous; he victualed his own
ships, and his influence in the maritime world was ubiquitous.

A man who can give you a job if you are out of work or if your board of
trade certificates are not quite clear is a power. A man who can lend
you money and who is willing to do it if you are on your beam ends is
also a power.

Hakluyt had helped many a man. He had established that reputation, yet
the men he helped had better have gone without his help, for once he
touched a man in this way he held him. The money he lent always, nearly
always, returned to him with heavy interest. Sometimes he made a dead
loss. He did not mind that, for he was a man who reckoned up things in
the large, and in the large he always profited, with this addition--he
could always put his hand on a man ready and able to do a dangerous or
dirty job for him.

Floyd, when Hakluyt had shown him over the wharfside store, took his
gear to the house recommended by Schumer, where he obtained rooms. Then
he went out to see the town, and finished up by dining at a restaurant
and going to the theater.

Next morning he went down to superintend the towing of the _Southern
Cross_ into dry dock for an overhaul. This business held him for most
of the day, and most of the next day he spent at the dock having a
good look at the vessel's copper sheathing. It seemed to him that the
dry docking was a work of supererogation. The _Southern Cross_ was in
excellent condition, and Hakluyt was not the man to waste money in
frills. Why had he gone to this expense?

There were several of Hakluyt's ships in the harbor, and chumming up
with one of the wharfside loafers, he managed to obtain a good deal of
information as to Hakluyt and his ships.

Said the broken-down sailorman, who was one reek of rum and navy twist:

"_Southern Cross_ in dry dock havin' her bottom scraped? I dunno in
the nation what bee's got into Hakluyt's bonnet. There's the _Mary and
Louise_--that's her lyin' by the oil tank--the weeds fathoms long on
her keel and the barnacles as big as saucers on her copper, yet she's
good enough to put out o' port without no dry dockin'. There's the
_Boomerang_, another of his tubs. You can see her forrard, the yaller
one, beyond that point. She's wrong from stem to rudder, she's held
together mostly by her paint, she hasn't seen a dry dock for years,
an' the sight of one would make her spew her bolts. I reckon she's
just held together by the salt water she floats in, yet he docks the
_Southern Cross_! Is that all his vessels? No, it ain't. D'you see that
schooner out there by the whistlin' buoy? She's the _Domain_. She's
Hakluyt's. Just come back from the islands a month ago. Been lyin'
there waitin' for I don't know what ever since. The copra's been out of
her this fortnight, and there she lays waitin' her job.

"What sort o' man is Hakluyt? Well, he's no sort to speak of. He blew
in here twenty years ago out of a Dutch ship that was glad to get rid
of him, and here he's stuck and prospered till he's fair rotten with
money and has his thumb on the town and half the harbor side as well.
He's owner and ship's chandler both. I've heard folk say he's sold his
soul to the devil, but that's a lie, for he ain't got a soul to sell.
The grub aboard his ships is most salt horse, and the bread bags has
to be tethered they're that lively with the weevils. Go and ask any
sailorman on the front if you don't believe me."

Floyd did not need to confirm this view of Hakluyt by making inquiries
of sailormen on the front. He took a long look at the _Domain_, and
then turned away from the wharfside and walked uptown to Hakluyt's
office.

Hakluyt was in, and they went over the list of stores together.

"You leave id all with me," said Hakluyt. "I shall have them all aboard
by the date of sailing. Well, and how do you like Sydney?"

Floyd expressed his opinion of Sydney. The dullest place in the world
for a lone man unaddicted to bar-room festivity or horse-racing.
Hakluyt gave him a pass for the theater, regretted that he could
not ask him to dinner, as he was a lone bachelor, told him to enjoy
himself, and dismissed him.

During the next fortnight Floyd managed to amuse himself innocently
enough. He had never been much of a reading man, but, picking up a
cheap edition of the "Count of Monte Cristo," he suddenly found a new
world open before him. He read it in bed at night, and he took it out
with him and read it by the sea front.

It occupied a good deal of his time, as he was a slow reader, and it
gave him a new horizon and new ideas and a new energy.

Monte Cristo's discovery of the treasure, his escape from the Château
d'If, the girl he loved, his cruel separation from her, his revenge,
all these things appealed to his mind with the power of reality, as
they have appealed to minds all the world over and as they ever will
appeal.

When he had finished "Monte Cristo," he bought a new novel. It was
about a young lady, who, starting life as a shop assistant, married a
duke at the end of the third chapter. The book did not hold him, and he
fell back on fishing.

There is good fishing to be had in the neighborhood of Sydney, and one
day toward the end of the third week and close now to the time of the
sailing of the _Southern Cross_, he met an individual on one of these
fishing excursions, a joyous and friendly personage who, returning with
him to Sydney, proposed drinks and led the way into a bar.

Floyd was not a drinking man, but the best of men make mistakes, and
the hot air of the bar, the friendliness of his new companion, the
pleasure of having some one to talk to, and the strength of the whisky
had their effect. He had not eaten since breakfast.

Presently he found himself one of a mixed company. His first
acquaintance had departed, yet he did not trouble about that. He
scarcely recognized the fact, and presently he recognized nothing. He
had been doped. One of these new friends had done the business, and an
hour later he found himself lying on a couch in Hakluyt's inner office,
of all places in the world, his pockets empty and his throat like a
fiery furnace.

He recognized at once his position. He had been robbed and left in
the street and had managed to reach Hakluyt's by that instinct for a
known place common to homing pigeons and drunken men, an instinct that
in the man is much more tricky than in the bird, as in the case of
Floyd, who, instead of finding himself in his rooms, found himself at
Hakluyt's.

His mind, as he lay there on the couch, was terribly lucid. He
remembered everything up to a certain point.

It was still daylight, so that his intoxication must have passed away
very quickly, as it does in those instances where it is produced by
a doper and through the medium of a "knock-out drop" placed in the
victim's drink; but Floyd knew nothing of this. He did not suspect that
he had been doped by some scoundrel for the purpose of robbery. He only
recognized that he had been drunk and incapable, and, to use the old
term so unfair to animals, had made a beast of himself.

The awful depression that comes after drink or drugs had a hold upon
him, and the unfair spirit that waits upon depression of this sort
began to exercise its power.

It showed him the vision of Isbel standing on the reef against a
background of blue and burning sea; it showed him the coconut trees and
breadfruits, their fronds and foliage moving in the wind; it showed
him all that was brilliant and fresh and pure in that extraordinary
life through which he had passed out there, away from civilization and
its dirt, and then it showed himself lying in Hakluyt's dusty office
recovering from drink and fortunate in not having been jailed.

It seemed to his simple mind that he had sinned against Isbel and that
he never, never could rise from his degradation and look in her face
again. All his homesickness for the island came upon him like a wave,
and he was endeavoring to raise himself on his arm to leave the couch
when a voice from the outer office made him lie down again.

It was Hakluyt's voice. He had just entered, and Floyd, as he lay,
heard the door of the outer office close.

"Well," said Hakluyt, who seemed to be continuing a conversation begun
outside, "id is just so. There is noding to fear. Wait for a moment,
though."

He came to the door of the inner office where Floyd was lying, pushed
it more widely open, and peeped in.

Floyd, more from shame than any other reason, lay with his eyes closed.

Hakluyt stood looking at him for a few seconds, then he closed the door.

Floyd instantly opened his eyes and sat up on the couch.

Hakluyt and the other man, whoever he might be, had been talking
about him. Of that he felt certain. He had no concrete evidence to
go upon, yet he felt sure that he had been under discussion and that
they were discussing him now. His ego had become abnormally sensitive,
fortunately for him. He felt sure that his disgraceful conduct was the
subject of their talk, and the overmastering desire to hear the worst
that could be said of him prompted him to leave the couch, approach the
door, and put his ear to the paneling. He heard Hakluyt's voice and
every word that he said distinctly.

"Look here, Captain Luckman," said Hakluyt, "when I say a thing I mean
id. You need have no fear. Schumer will see that there is no evidence
against you. You will dispose of the young man so that no trouble will
be made, no questions asked. You will not raise the price on me on that
account. You run no risk. That is all Schumer's work, and no blood need
be spilled. Schumer is nod the man to make any blunder. Two hundred
pounds now and two hundred when you get back. That is my uldimatum, and
what have you to do for that--noding, _absolutely_ noding."

"I'm not troubling about what Schumer does to the blighter," came
Luckman's voice. "I'm thinking of myself, and I say it's not enough.
Two-fifty down and two-fifty when I get back is _my_ ultimatum, and
poor enough pay it is for a job like that."

Floyd heard Hakluyt laugh. Just a single laugh, mirthless as a rap on a
coffin lid.

"So you would dictate terms to me," said he. "Why, God bless my soul,"
his voice rising in inflection, "suppose I order you from my office,
suppose I say to you, 'Get clear out of this place, Captain Luckman,
and never you ender id again,' hey? Suppose I say to you, 'Very well,
Captain Luckman, all those papers in my hands go to the owners of the
_Morning Star_. Sent anonymous.' Suppose----"

"Oh, stow that!" came Luckman's voice. "Suppose I put the mouth of a
revolver at your head and blow out your dirty brains? I'd do that same
as I'd poison a rat, if you cut any capers with my affairs. You're not
going to frighten me with threats. Put me beyond a certain point and
I'd do you up before the authorities could nab me, and if they did nab
me I'd croak you when I came out of quod. Talk like a man to a man or
I'll leave your office and let you do your own dirty work. Who else is
there in Sydney you could get?"

"Hundreds," said Hakluyt.

"Not one," replied Luckman. "Not one who would not either mess it or
give the show away in drink sometime or another. Five hundred is my
price. Two-fifty down, two-fifty when I land back. Not a halfpenny less
will I take."

In the momentary silence that followed, Floyd heard a drawer opened,
and then came Hakluyt's voice counting: "One, two, three, four--_and_
five."

Then Luckman's:

"_And_ five. Right you are."

The money was being paid over, and from the chinking sound it was being
paid in gold, five bags of fifty sovereigns each, evidently.

Floyd did not wait for any more. He went back to the couch. He had
forgotten his position, he had forgotten the drinking bout, he no
longer even felt the headache and the parching thirst that had
tormented him on waking. Hakluyt and Schumer had made a plan to get
rid of him. That was all he knew for the moment. The idea excluded
everything else by its monstrosity and strangeness.

The discovery that a plot is on foot against one's life is the most
soul-stirring discovery that a man can make. The knowledge that one is
an object of enmity is always disturbing. It unsettles the placidity of
the ego, almost more than the discovery that one is an object of love.
It also raises the temperature of the soul.

But the discovery that one is plotted against with a view to one's
removal from the world is a heart-chilling discovery which at all
events in the first moments reduces the temperature of the soul and
body both.

Floyd, taking his place on the couch again, closed his eyes. He heard
the two men go out; then after a moment he heard Hakluyt return.

Hakluyt opened the door and looked in on him, and Floyd, moving and
pretending to wake up, rubbed his eyes. Then he sat up, asked in a
confused manner where he was, got on his legs, pretended to stagger,
and made for the door.

Hakluyt, nothing loath to get rid of him, followed him to the stair top.

"Where are you off to now?" inquired Hakluyt, as the other went down
the stairs clutching the banister tightly.

"Going to have a drink," replied Floyd. "See you in the morning."

"Right," said Hakluyt. "Take care of yourself."

In the street Floyd turned into the nearest bar, drank a bottle of
soda water, and, having sat for a moment to collect his wits, started
for his rooms. He had now entirely recovered mastery of himself. His
discovery about Hakluyt was finer than any pick-me-up or tonic, and his
mind before the problem clearly stated by fate had little inclination
for sleep.

The problem itself, though clearly stated, was intricate and in some
respects obscure. If Hakluyt and Schumer wanted to clear him out of the
pearl business, if they were scoundrels enough to plot his destruction,
why did they not commit the act themselves without calling in a third
man? He could imagine no answer to this question that satisfied him,
yet there were two answers that might have been put forward by a man
with a knowledge of Schumer and Hakluyt, a knowledge of psychology and
a knowledge of the world.

Firstly, neither Schumer nor Hakluyt might be murderers in an active
sense. Very few men are capable--God be thanked--of taking a fellow
man's life in cold blood with their own hands. Schumer was without
doubt a man of sensibility and parts. Hakluyt, though without parts or
sensibility, was not of the active type of scoundrel. Both of these
men might be capable of planning the destruction of another man, but
neither would be likely to do the work himself.

Secondly, in a business of this sort it is always safer for the
murderer to employ an agent than to act himself.

It is the assassin who leaves traces, the assassin who is followed, the
assassin who is hanged.

Of course, he may accuse his employer, but an employer of the type of
Schumer or of Hakluyt is not likely to give an agent any chance to make
evidence against him. He had paid Luckman in gold, and when the job was
finished he would pay him in gold. Gold cannot be traced--and that is
one of the greatest pities in the world.

Floyd could see nothing very clearly in the whole of this business with
the exception of the fact that foul play was to be used against him,
but he saw that fact clearly enough. Leaving the problem of Schumer and
Hakluyt aside, he tried to imagine what method Luckman might possibly
employ. The remainder of the money was not to be paid to Luckman until
his return. Return from where? There could be only one answer to
that--from the sea.

Luckman would sail with the _Southern Cross_, be put on board either as
mate or supercargo; and on the voyage he would do what he was paid to
do.

The _Southern Cross_ would most likely never reach the island. An
accident would happen to Floyd, and she would return to Sydney. Luckman
would be paid off for his job, and Hakluyt, taking charge of the
schooner, would sail for the island and shake hands with Schumer over
the fact that they two were the sole possessors of the place and its
wealth.

And what would happen to Isbel?

At this thought a wave of fury rose in his soul against the men whom he
imagined to be plotting his destruction.

He half rose from his bed, and had Hakluyt appeared at that moment it
would have been a very bad thing for the shipowner.

Then he lay down, a deep determination in his heart to deal with this
matter in the only way it could be dealt with satisfactorily, to match
cunning against cunning, and force, at the proper moment, against force.

He determined to say nothing and do nothing to arouse any uneasiness
or suspicion in Hakluyt, to welcome Luckman on board, and then to deal
with Luckman when they were clear of the Heads.

If Luckman were put on board as mate or supercargo the matter would be
easy, but if Luckman were placed over him as captain it would be much
more difficult.

If Hakluyt were to suggest such a thing he determined to oppose it, to
stand on his dignity and refuse utterly to give up his post as chief in
command to a stranger.

Then as he lay down again the thought came to him what a miraculous and
providential thing it was that he had gone out fishing that day and
fallen in with the bibulous stranger. He had been robbed, it is true,
of a few pounds, but that was a very cheap price to pay for his life.

Floyd, without being a professedly religious man, had a deep and
intuitive belief in a God that rules the world and deals out justice
and protects--though sometimes in a roundabout way--the innocent. He
felt that Providence had a hand in this affair, yet he was not of
the type that believes in a Providence who works single-handed. He
determined that in this matter he would give Providence all the help he
could, and having come to this determination he fell asleep.




CHAPTER XXVIII

CARDON


Next morning Floyd presented himself early at the office of Hakluyt
& Son, and Hakluyt received him with some very bald jokes about his
condition on the day before.

Floyd was not in a temper to take them, and indicated as much. Then
they fell to discussing stores and the sailing of the _Southern Cross_.
The stores were all on board, and the crew were ready. "I had thought
of your sailing on Friday," said Hakluyt, "but Friday is not a good
day; Thursday is better; that is the day after to-morrow. Will you be
ready to sail on Thursday?"

Floyd asked nothing better, and said so; then he waited, expecting
Hakluyt to broach the subject of Captain Luckman, but Hakluyt did not
say a word about that gentleman. They talked of a good many things, but
Luckman's name was never mentioned.

Floyd left the office perplexed and more disturbed than he would have
been had Hakluyt announced his intention of superseding him as captain
by appointing Luckman to the post.

Was Luckman to be sprung upon him at the last moment? Apparently so.

He turned down Market Street. So deep in thought was he that the
passers-by were unnoticed. He walked without aim or object for some
two hundred yards till at the corner of Fore Street he was brought to
reality by a hand laid on his arm.

He turned, and found himself face to face with a tall, bearded man,
wearing a slouch hat, roughly dressed yet somehow well-to-do looking,
bronzed, hearty, and healthy with sun and open-air life.

"Captain Cardon!" said Floyd.

"You passed me as if you didn't know me," said the other, laughing.
"And I'm Captain Cardon no more; plain Jack Cardon, gold prospector,
and down on his luck--that's me. Where the deuce have you sprung from?"

"You don't look particularly down on your luck," said Floyd. "Me? I've
sprung from the islands--let's go somewhere and have a talk."

"You come with me," said Cardon, turning and leading the way down Fore
Street. "Well, this is a bit of good fortune. I was crazy for the sight
of some man I knew other than the bar bummers round here. It's four
years since we met, isn't it? And I owe you that five dollars still;
lost your postal address, or did you give me one?"

Floyd laughed.

He had sailed under Cardon in one of the blackbird freighters, and knew
him for what he was--one of the best, most desperate, and irresponsible
of men. He had parted from him at 'Frisco in a bar in a haze of tobacco
smoke, Cardon, relieved of his responsibilities in life by reason of a
quarrel with his owners, sitting on a high stool by the counter, a full
glass beside him, and leading the chorus of "A Hot Time in the Old
Town To-night."

He was to have seen Cardon the next day, but they had failed to meet,
and then the sea had separated them. He remembered the five dollars;
they fluttered up to his mind now--ghosts of silver coins forgotten
beneath the waters of memory.

Cardon was like a sea breeze to him in his present state of mind, and
he followed as Cardon led the way through a garden where seats and
tables were set out and into a bar where more seats and tables faced a
bar counter gorgeous with colored bottles.

There were island spears and head-dresses on the walls, and photographs
of towns sea-washed and backed by coconut palms.

The poetry of the islands spreads across the Pacific even to the bars
of Sydney and San Francisco, where the trade winds blow in mariners
bronzed by the sun and salt, where even the traders carry with them in
their hands something more than copra or gold.

The place was almost empty at this hour, and Cardon, at Floyd's
request, called for soft drinks. Floyd produced cigars.

"Well," said Cardon, when he had lit up, "I'm blessed if this doesn't
lay over everything. To think of you and me parting at Black Jack's
on the Barbary Coast four years and more ago and promising to meet
the next day, and then meeting here, just as though we'd only parted
yesterday--what have you been doing with yourself?"

"What have you?" asked Floyd. "You tell me your yarn, and I'll tell
mine. I want a little time to think about mine, for if I'm not mistaken
it will have more to do with you than you think. I may have an offer
to make you; however, that will do to talk of afterward."

"If your offer has anything to do with money, I'm open to it," said
Cardon. "What have I been doing since we parted? Everything and
nothing. I made a fortune the next year in Brazil--mining. And I lost
it six months after I got it. I was done by a partner, and pretty nigh
done up. Then I took to the sea again. A cattle boat, and I was boss
of it. I was tending the cattle--fact. But I didn't grumble. I like
cattle; they're a long sight honester than men. Well, after that I
did some railway work in Central America, and after that I went oil
prospecting with a young fellow who paid for kit and accouterments and
died on my hands with malaria before we got a sign of what we were
looking for. He had no relatives, and he gave me all the money on him
before he died, which wasn't much--some seven hundred dollars. Then
I turned up here on the hunt for gold, and found none; did some more
railway work and got good pay for it, straggled back to Sydney and
struck you in the street. That's all."

"Well, you're looking well on it," said Floyd; "you don't look a day
older than when I met you last."

"Nor I don't feel it," said Cardon. "If I'd been living in a city all
the time it would have been different, but the open air keeps one
alive. If I'd managed to keep that fortune, I'd have mostlike been dead
by this time between wine and women. As it is, I'm liver than when I
started--I don't care a hang for money."

"Well, why are you always hunting for it then?" asked Floyd, with a
laugh.

"For the pleasure of the hunt," replied Cardon. "What makes a man hunt
bears and spend thousands of dollars on guns and tents and guides, as
I've seen some of these N' York chaps do? He doesn't love bears; he
hunts them for the fun of the thing. Same with me and dollars; I don't
love them, but I love hunting for them. It's the same with most men, I
reckon. Well, what's your yarn?"

Floyd tipped the ash off his cigar. All this time, while listening to
Cardon, he had been making up his mind. He, like Cardon, did not love
money. He reckoned that his share of the pearling business and the
pearls, even if he were to divide it equally with Cardon, would give
him enough money to start in life at some more profitable business than
sailoring. He was bitterly in need of friendship and a strong man's
help, and he decided to tell Cardon everything, invoke his help, and
offer him half shares.

"What I'm going to tell you," said he, "sounds like a yarn out of a
book, but it's the truth. Some months ago I left 'Frisco, bound for the
islands in a schooner owned by a man named Coxon. The _Cormorant_ was
her name. She was an unlucky ship." He told of the fire, of the island,
of Schumer and Isbel, of the pearls--he told everything worth telling
about the whole business; and, when he had finished, the effect of the
yarn on Cardon was very evident, for that gentleman for once in his
life was dumb.

"But that's not all," went on Floyd. "Something happened yesterday that
puts a topknot on the whole business."

He told of the conversation he had overheard in Hakluyt's office, and
of the act of treachery which he believed to be impending.

"That's clear enough," said Cardon; "they mean to do you up. Who is
this Luckman?"

"I don't know him from Adam. Didn't even see him, only heard his voice."

"That's bad," said Cardon; "and you say the _Southern Cross_ sails the
day after to-morrow?"

"Yes, on Thursday."

"You are bound to go in her?"

"Of course."

"Has Hakluyt said anything to you about Luckman?"

"Not a word."

"Yet you are the skipper?"

"Yes."

"What's your crew?"

"All Kanakas."

"All Kanakas?"

"Yes."

"But how in the nation are you going to work her single-handed?"

"Oh, easy enough. I have a chap called Mountain Joe; he's a Kanaka, but
he has picked up a bit of navigation."

"Well," said Cardon, "that simplifies matters a bit, for Hakluyt can't
ship this blighter as a Kanaka, can't slide him aboard as an extra
hand. He must ship him openly; most likely he'll do it at the last
moment."

"That is what I'm thinking," said Floyd. "He'll dump him onto me just
as I'm getting up anchor, and I can't refuse, for he's sure to make up
some yarn. My only course is to take him and then deal with him when I
get to sea."

"That's easier said than done."

"You're right."

"Unless you shoot him right off and chuck him overboard, which is
impossible; or put him in irons, which, with a Kanaka crew, would be
risky; or maroon him on some rock or other with a beaker of water and
a bag of bread, which is also a bit risky. No, I should take him right
along and front him with this Schumer, tell them they are found out,
and at the first sign of a move on their part--shoot."

"That's easy to say."

"Yes, easier to say than do; yet if it was me I'd do it."

"Look here," said Floyd, "will you come into this business with me?
I'll give you half profits."

Cardon did not reply for a moment. He took a pull at his drink, wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand, looked at the top of his cigar,
and then said, quite simply:

"I don't mind."

Floyd stretched out his hand and they shook.

"I thought you would," said Floyd. "And now I'll tell you something
else--it's not the money I'm thinking of so much as that girl I told
you of."

"Isbel?"

"Yes, Isbel. I'm--I'm----"

"Soft on her," said Cardon, laughing. "Well, you're not the first
to get tangled with a girl. All the same, I wish we were fighting
this business out without petticoats in it. I have a holy dread of
petticoats. On shore and after a cruise I don't mind; but they're no
use afloat or where fighting has to be done."

"Aren't they?" said Floyd. "I'd sooner have Isbel backing me in a row
than most men. I told you she helped me in my scrap with those scamps,
but I did not tell you all. She can shoot straight, and she doesn't
know fear. She backed me right through the business without turning
a hair, and we were fighting half a day and the whole of a night.
Fighting? Yes! I have never known what it meant before--shut up in a
house with nearly half a hundred Solomon Islanders outside all yelling
like fiends and mad to have one's blood."

"Well," said Cardon, "I expect you'll have some fighting to match that
before we have done with this business. If this man Schumer is anything
like what you say, and if this man Luckman is anything like Schumer, we
will have our work cut out for us by a fancy tailor. What did you say
these pearls were worth?"

"Worth? I don't know the exact figures, but Schumer has pearls there
on the island now that I reckon must be at least worth twenty thousand
pounds. I'm figuring on the values he suggested, and he's a man who
knows something of pearls, and he's not a man who exaggerates."

"Well, I'm not going to halve your pearls," said Cardon. "I reckon my
share in the business will be the whole of Schumer's."

"Of Schumer's?"

"Of Schumer's."

"But, see here," said Floyd.

"Yes?"

"You intend to take Schumer's share from him?"

"That is what I said."

"But would that be fair? He has worked deuced hard; he discovered the
oyster beds----"

"And he betrayed you, and is only waiting there on this island of yours
to help to do you in."

"All the same," said Floyd, "I don't like the idea of stripping him if
we get the better of him. It may be foolish, but I've worked alongside
of him, and, though I believe he is the biggest scoundrel God ever put
hair on, I don't like the idea of taking his share of the pearls from
him."

"When we have done with Schumer," replied Cardon grimly, "I don't
suspect he'll want pearls. We'll leave the matter till then, for it's
on the cards that when he has done with us we won't want pearls,
either. So let's not divide the stuff up till the business is over. How
are you off for arms and ammunition?"

"I have a revolver at my rooms and half a packet of cartridges, and
there is a rifle on board in my cabin with a hundred cartridges for it."

"Good!" said Cardon. "And I have my old friend Joe." He opened his
coat and showed a navy revolver strapped in its case to his belt. He
slipped the long, beautifully kept weapon from its case and stroked it
lovingly. "This is him. This chap would stop a hippopotamus. He's a
man's weapon--what?"

"He's big enough," said Floyd, as Cardon returned Joe to his case, "and
I hope to goodness we'll pull this thing through without having to use
him. I'm not a coward, but I hate killing."

"So do I," replied Cardon, "till it comes to the point. Well, now we've
settled about the arms, let's fix another matter. How am I to book a
passage on the _Southern Cross_?"

"I have been thinking that out the whole time," replied Floyd. "Suppose
I go to Hakluyt and say that I have a friend I want to take with me,
he'll buck at the idea at once, the same as if I told him I wanted an
extra hand to help in the navigating; and it would be quite natural,
too, for the whole of this business is a secret, and if another white
man was taken on board, no matter who or what he was, it might mean the
secret getting out."

"Sure," said Cardon.

"The only way," continued Floyd, "is to take you without Hakluyt
knowing."

"Stowaway?"

"Yes. There are two cabins off the main cabin--the captain's and the
mate's. Only one is used; for Mountain Joe, the fellow I told you
about, berths with the crew. I can take you aboard to-morrow night.
I'll tell Joe next morning you have gone ashore in a shore boat. You
can stay in the mate's cabin till we get the anchor up."

"No," said Cardon, "in your cabin."

"Why so?" asked Floyd.

"This way: Suppose old man Hakluyt arrives off with this Luckman at the
last moment. You can't refuse to take him; you don't _want_ to refuse.
Well, naturally, he'll want the mate's cabin, and you can let him have
it without any bother."

"That's true," said Floyd.

"Luckman may be sprung on you before that," said Cardon. "In which case
we must make some other arrangement about my getting on board; but, as
far as we know, what we have decided on will stand."

"Where are you staying in Sydney?" asked Floyd.

"Well," said Cardon, "I only arrived last night, and I put up at a
tavern on the Leicester Road. I left all my gear there. It isn't much,
and it won't take many porters to fetch it down to the wharfside."

"Well," said Floyd, "you had better come and stay at my place. I can
get you a room, and you can put your things among my baggage which I'll
send on board to-morrow night."

Cardon agreed to this, and, finishing their drinks, they left the place
together.




CHAPTER XXIX

PETER WILLIAMS


Next morning Floyd called on Hakluyt, while Cardon, who had accompanied
him, waited outside the office.

Floyd was half an hour in the office, and when he came out Cardon
followed till he had turned the street corner, and there joined him.

"I can't make it out," said Floyd; "I've said good-by to him, and I'm
to start to-morrow morning at sunup, and not a word did he say about
Luckman or anyone else, not a hint that he was going to send an extra
hand on board. What's the meaning of it? Did I dream that business in
the office, or was it real?"

"Oh, I guess you'll find it real enough to satisfy you before long,"
said Cardon. "You see, there's one solid reason behind all this that
will make it work out different from a dream, and that reason is
pearls. You say you have a third share in the business, which share,
if the business is worth twenty thousand as it stands, would work out
close on seven thousand pounds. Now, if Hakluyt is a shipowner, he's
a scoundrel; and if he's a scoundrel, he'll do a lot to secure seven
thousand pounds. Why, men sink ships every day for less than that; and
sinking a ship is a lot more risky business than doing up an unknown
sailorman. You needn't be uneasy on that score. You dreamed a real
dream. You see, you are worth killing, that's the long and short of
it; for not only are you worth the seven thousand, but you are worth a
third of all that pearl lagoon will bring in the future, which may be a
lot. I wish we could get to know something about this Luckman. Suppose
we make inquiries?"

"Whom could we ask?"

"Some one who knows the port. Peter Williams, he's the man; he keeps
a bar down on the waterside. I knew him in Melbourne years ago, and I
gave him a call when I came here first, and he's a friendly sort of
customer. Don't you do any talking; leave it all to me."

They took their way down to the waterside, and here, before a rather
dingy bar with the name Peter Williams done in huge letters on the
front, Cardon paused.

"This is the place," said he, "and we'd better go in separate. You
see, if Williams by any chance was to know Luckman and tell him two
strangers had been inquiring about him, Luckman would ask for a
description of them, and might spot you. Don't pretend to know me, then
we will be on the safe side."

Peter Williams, a red-headed Welshman in shirt sleeves, was leaning
across the bar talking to Cardon when Floyd entered. There was no one
else in the place.

Floyd glanced round him with disgust. The walls were dingy and showed a
dado of grease marks above the benches where the heads of customers had
rested against the wall. The atmosphere was heavy with stale tobacco
and the smell of gin and sawdust.

He called for a drink, and took his seat on one of the benches while
Peter Williams returned to his conversation with Cardon.

"Well, I wouldn't have him here," said Peter. "Not that I'm a prying
man into another man's character, for a publican has nothing to do
with the character of his customers. No, it's not that; it's my other
customers I'm thinking of. If he was to come in here or be seen here
regular, I'd lose my trade--and no wonder. He's never been had by the
law, but he's got the name of having drowned more sailormen than is
good for him. It's so. He's lost three ships out of this port alone,
and God He knows how many more, and has done it so artful that the law
can't touch him. And still he gets ships. What's that you say--you
wonder that sailormen will sign on under him? How are they to pick
and choose? Give them drink enough, and they'd sign on under Satan.
And there's more than that to it. The _Baralong_, she was known to be
rotten right down to her garboard strake and Huffer was her captain,
and he was known to be as bad as her; and there were two jacks in
here drinking and talking her over and talking Huffer over and giving
them both their proper names. Well, next day both those chaps signed
on under Huffer, and the day after they were off to Valparaiso on the
_Baralong_. I believe some of those chaps would sooner sign on in a
crazy vessel than a sound one. They seem to like the danger. All the
same, when they sit down to their drinks they don't want to have the
taste of their liquor spoiled by the sight of chaps like Huffer or
Luckman. They'll sail under them, but they won't drink near them.
That's the plain truth."

Cardon, after a little while, went out, and presently Floyd followed
him.

"Well," said Floyd, when they met in the street, "you've heard
Luckman's character. What do you think of it?"

"I never think about men's characters, or bother a cent about anything
than the man himself," replied Cardon. "A man may have a tremendous big
character--or, better, call it reputation for being a holy terror; and
when you overhaul him you may find him to be a merchantman painted in
imitation of a pirate, or, again, he may have the reputation of being a
very quiet man indeed; then you take his lid off, and--oh, my!

"I've seen a little bit of a man who looked like a parson with the pip,
a little bit of a chap with a pale face that looked as if it had been
trying all its life to raise a beard and then given up the business
as unworkable. Well, that chap swam out to a ship somewhere down the
Chile coast, talked the crew over, and made them mutiny. With the crew
he took the ship, and with the ship he took a town, and with the town
he'd have taken Chile, I believe, only the Chilean government chipped
in in time and sent troops and beat him in a big battle near Valdivia
and then hanged him at Concepción. I saw him hanged. Benken was his
name--an American from nowhere, with a past history that showed nothing
except the fact that he had once been a prisoner in Numea and had
escaped by raising a revolt and murdering the guards. Yet to look at
him he was quite a quiet man; might have been a shopman.

"No; as I was saying, there's nothing counts but the man himself, and
by the man himself I don't mean a man's character or face, but just
the something that drives him on. If he hasn't got that something, he
may have the face of a Napoleon Bonaparte or the character of a white
lamb--it doesn't matter, he arrives nowhere. Now, from all accounts,
the man I fear most in this business is not Luckman but Schumer.
Schumer seems to be all there from what you tell me, and he doesn't
seem to make much show. Is he a quiet sort of chap?"

"Yes, very."

"Fair spoken and easy in his talk?"

"Yes."

"That's the sort of man that gives trouble. Well, we will see what we
will see when the time comes; and now I propose we go and have a bit of
dinner. It's the last we'll have on shore for some time."

That afternoon Floyd, having paid off his landlord, called a porter and
had his gear, together with Cardon's, taken down to the wharfside. Here
they took a shore boat and rowed off to the _Southern Cross_. Mountain
Joe was hanging over the rail as they approached. He and the whole
Kanaka ship's company had been specially provided for when on shore
by Hakluyt. He had sent the whole lot, in fact, under the guidance of
one of his men, to a fishing village down the coast, there to amuse
themselves till the time of sailing. He did not want them knocking
round Sydney and maybe talking, though indeed they knew little enough
as to the truth concerning the pearl fishery.

Mountain Joe grinned when he saw Floyd; then he lowered the ladder for
them.

It was a lovely late afternoon, the great harbor like a sheet of
glass, the gulls crying and wheeling above the water and the trees of
the shore and the far-stretching hills green against a sky of summer.
Cardon, when he stepped on deck, looked round him with approval. The
_Southern Cross_ was not a fast boat, as schooners go, but she was
only some six years old and she had been well looked after. Built by
McDowell, of Sydney, than whom no better schooner builder exists, she
had been laid down to the plans of a private firm with ideas of their
own, as though one were to go to Mr. Pool or Messrs. Stultz for a suit
of clothes to be made according to one's own ideas of cut and style.

The result was that the _Southern Cross_ turned out to be something of
a failure as far as speed was concerned, but a splendid sea boat. Every
bit of stuff in her was good, and spars, rigging, and hull would have
stood the criticism of an English navy dockyard inspection.

Floyd took Cardon down below and showed him the main cabin and the
cabins of the captain and the first and second mate.

The captain's cabin had two bunks--an upper and a lower one--and they
arranged that Cardon should sleep that night in the upper bunk, which
had curtains.

"If Hakluyt should turn up before we start," said Cardon, "I can lie in
the upper bunk with the curtains drawn and you can say I'm some of your
gear you have stowed there. There's no fear of any of those tomfool
Kanakas coming and poking their noses in here?"

"No, I'll look to that. The fellow that acts as steward is a born fool,
and if he did see you he wouldn't take notice; and, anyhow, you're on
board, and, Hakluyt or no Hakluyt, you are going to sail with me."

He got out the spirits and some cigars, and they sat smoking and
talking till the steward came in to light the lamps.

Cardon, at sight of this person, felt no uneasiness; he was of
the stupid type of native--"wore his mouth open," to use Cardon's
expression, and was afflicted with deafness due to adenoids.

They came up on deck after dark, and sat smoking and watching the
lights of Sydney and the harbor all spangled with star reflections and
the anchor lights of the shipping.

"Well," said Cardon, "if old man Hakluyt had been intending to come off
for the purpose of dumping Luckman on you, I guess he'd have come by
this."

"You never know," replied Floyd. "That sort of reptile is pretty
cunning, and I don't give up a fear of surprise till I'm outside the
Heads. Look! There's a shore boat come off, and it's making for us if
I'm not mistaken."

Cardon looked in the direction indicated.

"You're right," said he.

Without another word he turned and dived below.

Floyd, quite sure as to the other's ability to take cover, remained on
deck.

He could see the boat now clearly as she drew near across the starlit
water.

There were four fellows rowing, and a figure in the stern steering. It
was Hakluyt alone and unaccompanied by Luckman.

Hakluyt came on board and gave Floyd good evening, inquired if the crew
were all right, and then came below.

Floyd, who preceded him, looked anxiously round, but Cardon had removed
all traces of himself, and the door of the captain's cabin was closed.

"Well," said Hakluyt, as he took his seat and a drink, "here's luck
to the voyage and a quick return with another cargo of shell, though
I expect it is Schumer himself who will come next to Sydney. You will
give him my very good respects?"

"Certainly," replied Floyd, "and perhaps the next time I meet you will
be on the island. You are sure to pay us another visit."

"Maybe," replied Hakluyt, "and maybe not. I am getting old for sea
work, but I shall always be glad to welcome you in Sydney."

He produced a pocketbook, and they went into accounts as to stores, et
cetera. This business took them some half hour or so, and then Hakluyt
took another cigar and talked on indifferent subjects till it was time
to go.

He shook hands effusively with Floyd on deck, and wished him good luck
again as he went down the side.

Floyd watched the boat draw off and the oars making rings on the
star-spangled water; then he returned to the cabin, where he found
Cardon released from his prison and seated at the table.

"He's gone," said Floyd.

"And no sign of Luckman?"

"Not a sign."

"Well," said Cardon, "it's beyond me. However, we're not out of Sydney
harbor yet, and there's no knowing what may happen before we are."




CHAPTER XXX

THE OPEN SEA


Floyd did not take the trouble to speak to Mountain Joe about Cardon's
presence on board.

Cardon got into the upper bunk at about eleven o'clock and went
promptly to sleep. As for Floyd, he could neither sleep nor lie still.
During his stay in Sydney, he had been restless enough at times, but he
had never felt like this. Ever since his departure from the island the
idea of Isbel had followed him and been with him now clear and close,
now more remote and partly obscured from him by everyday affairs.

To-night she haunted him.

All sorts of fears and imaginings rose in his mind. He had never known
the extent of his love for her till just this moment, on the eve of his
return. Suppose when he got back he found she was not there. Suppose
the natives had revolted again; suppose that Schumer, playing every
one false and on the chance of a passing ship, had gone off from the
island, taking the pearls with him and Isbel. Suppose--suppose----There
was no end to the suppositions that rose up before his mind as he paced
the floor of the main cabin and listened to Cardon snoring in his bunk.

Cardon, in his idea of passing himself off as baggage, had not
reckoned on his capacity for snoring. Floyd, however, did not trouble
about it; even if Hakluyt were suddenly to come on board and see Cardon
in the flesh, let alone hearing him snoring, it would not much matter.

In his present frame of mind, he would have bundled Hakluyt down the
main hatch and closed it on him had he appeared to give any trouble.

He came on deck, leaving Cardon to his dreams, and paced the planks,
still engaged in suppositions as to Isbel.

Then the night wind, balmy and warm, blew the evil fancies from his
mind and restored its tone. Nothing could have happened in the few
weeks that had elapsed since his departure. Isbel was well able to take
care of herself, and as for the natives, they were not likely to try
any more tricks with Sru dead and Schumer in command. The real danger
was to come, and its name was Luckman. That was nothing. With Cardon at
his elbow, he felt able to cope with a hundred Luckmans and Schumers.
He was forewarned. Fate had declared for him--or so it seemed.

He remained on deck till dawn began to break upon the harbor, then he
went down and woke Cardon.

Before going down, he had stirred up the cook and ordered coffee to be
sent to the main cabin; and while they were drinking this they heard a
boat coming alongside, and Mountain Joe shouted down the hatchway that
the pilot was coming on board.

"I reckon I'd better stay hid till we are clear of the harbor," said
Cardon. "There's no use in running risks. Up with you, and interview
the pilot and get the anchor out of the mud as quick as you can. Give
me a word when you have dropped him. You won't have far to look for me."

Floyd went up and found the pilot already on deck. The wind was fair;
all the port regulations had been complied with, and there was nothing
to hold them but the anchor.

Cardon, down below, could hear the clank of the windlass pawls as the
slack of the anchor chain was being hove in, the feet of the fellows on
deck running to orders, their voices as they hauled on the halyards,
and then again the welcome music of the pawls as the anchor was dragged
from the mud and hauled, gray and dripping, to the catheads.

Instantly the schooner took the feel of a live ship, to use Cardon's
words. She heeled ever so little, and, as he lay in the bunk, he could
hear the warble of the water against her planking, to say nothing of
the rattle of the rudder chain and the occasional creak of woodwork
acknowledging mast pressure and strain.

After a while Cardon, tired with the stuffy air of the cabin, dropped
asleep. When he awoke, Floyd was standing beside him, and by the
movement of the cabin he knew that the _Southern Cross_ had cleared the
harbor and was making her bow to the Pacific.

"How about the pilot?" asked Cardon, rubbing his eyes.

"Dropped him long ago," replied Floyd. "Hop out and come on deck. The
fellow is laying the things for breakfast, and a breath of air will do
you good."

Cardon slipped from the bunk and came on deck.

A brave breeze was blowing, and the sea, roughed up beneath the
morning sun, had a hard, gemlike look. Foam caps showed, and in the
west the setting moon hung, ghostlike, in a sky that suggested millions
and millions of miles of depth and blueness.

All the east was hard and bright; all the west was blue and subtle and
tender; and between the east and the west lay the sea like a country
carved from sapphire and tourmaline, with the green hills of earth
sinking slowly but surely away beyond the foam in the schooner's wake.

Then, as the sun mounted higher, the sea lost its look of solidity,
cast it back on the land, now remote and hard, black fish came
walloping along as if racing the rushing schooner. The wind,
freshening, blew in great, steady gusts, filling the bellying canvas
and pressing like a great hand so that the lee rail was almost awash
and the spray came inboard, fresh, like the very breath of the sea.

Cardon, with his hand on the ratlines, stood taking it all in while
Floyd stood beside him, his clothes flapping round him in the flogging
wind.

Mountain Joe was at the wheel. He showed no surprise at Cardon's
presence on board, nor did any of the others. They evidently looked on
him as a passenger or supercargo of some sort approved of by Hakluyt.

"She's a good sea boat," said Cardon, "and she seems to steer well; but
what in the nation can have become of Luckman?"

"That's what's bothering me," said Floyd. "I've been trying to figure
the thing out ever since we got the anchor on board. He can't be stowed
away anywhere. He's not in the fo'c'sle, for I went down there under
the pretense of seeing whether the hammocks were all right. He's not
in the galley, he's not in the cabins, and he's not in the hold. He's
not on board, in fact. Well, what is the meaning of it? The only thing
I can imagine is that the affair has fallen through and he's gone off
with the money Hakluyt gave him--either that or I must have imagined
the conversation I heard."

"Oh, I reckon that wasn't any imagination of yours," said Cardon.
"There was lots of reason why Hakluyt should have put the business
against you. No; the only explanation is that the thing, as you say,
must have fallen through. Luckman funked it and took his hook with the
money. That's the only possible thing that can have happened. But it
leaves the position just the same as far as you and I are concerned."

"How do you mean?"

"Just this: The plot was made against you, and it wasn't made in
Sydney. It was all arranged on the island between Schumer and Hakluyt."

"Yes, it must have been."

"Well, then, the question turns up, are you going to go on working with
this Schumer, who has made all the arrangements for doing you in and
who would have done you in had not the thing fallen through?"

"Never!" said Floyd. "I have finished with Schumer."

"Oh, no, you haven't!" replied Cardon. "Not by a long chalk. There
remains the question of the pearls, and the question of punishment.
Schumer has got to pay for his villainy, and pay through the nose. But
there's the fellow bringing breakfast aft. Let's go down, and we can
talk the matter out below."

They went down, and when breakfast was over Cardon lit a pipe, settled
himself comfortably on the couch at the starboard side of the cabin,
and, after a moment's silence, turned to Floyd, who was lighting a
cigar.

"You have got to get even with Schumer, and from all you have told
me of Schumer you will have your work cut out. I know the type. The
Pacific is full of it. This chap is a trader and a sailor and a fighter
all rolled in one. I know the sort--able to do anything, from playing a
tune on a fiddle to playing a dirty trick. I know them."

"Don't you be too sure," said Floyd. "This man Schumer is not one of
the ordinary sort of traders and swindlers. He's a very big man. He
ought to have been anything, and the wonder to me is he has never risen
to something in the world better than what he is."

"There you have his weakness," said Cardon. "I admit he may be a big
man, as you say; and yet, as you say, he is only a little one as far
as the world is concerned. There's something wrong somewhere in his
make-up. He doesn't drink?"

"Not he!"

"Well, there's some crack in him we must try and feel for. I expect
the chap is such a rightdown wrong one that he has failed in life just
because of that. I don't say I'm not a failure in my way, but I have
failed mostly through taking things easy and trusting in men. But
Schumer hasn't those weaknesses, if I can judge by what you have told
me. No; I suspect his disease has been a pretty general one. He's a
wrong un. I'm not a man given to moralizing, but I've seen a lot of
the world, and I've seen that men who don't run straight don't get on.
It's funny, but they don't. Now look at old man Schumer's case. He fell
in with a pearl lagoon; he has taken twenty thousand pounds' worth of
pearls out of it, and maybe more by this. He had a partner named Floyd.
He couldn't run straight with that partner, but must lay plans for his
wiping out. Floyd discovers his trick, and now Schumer is going to lose
pearls and lagoon and all; and when he's lost them he will go back to
his old way of life with his feathers clipped, and men will say: 'I
can't understand that Schumer; he ought to have been anything, and yet
there he is bumming around in bars.' That's what they will say. Honesty
is the best policy, and that's God's truth and no copybook story, and
that's what I'm going to teach Schumer."

"But, look here, you say he is going to lose pearls and lagoon and
all----"

"I? He may keep the lagoon--we only want the pearls."

"Yes, but----"

"I know what you are going to say--we have to get them before we keep
them. I know. The thing to worry out is how we are to get the weather
gauge on him. You have taken me into this affair as a partner, offering
me half your share. I don't want that. I want Schumer's share. The man
is a murderer, and deserves hanging. I am only going to fire him, but I
admit the thing will be difficult.

"If we sail into the lagoon and declare war openly with him, he'll
fight, and he'll be backed by all those natives he has got there."

"He will, and besides there's the--the girl."

"Just so; you don't want her injured."

"Cardon," said Floyd, "I tell you the truth as between man and man.
She's everything. I don't care a straw about the pearls, about money,
about Schumer. I don't care about life itself where she's concerned.
She's the only thing I have ever cared for really."

"And yet," cut in Cardon, "if you care for her like that, it's all
the more important for you not to be done out over the pearls. Pearls
are money. Well, do you think you don't want money? To a single man,
money is useful, but to a man with a woman in tow, by God, it's a blank
necessity! What are you to do with her as a sailor? Leave her in some
seaport while you are off sweeping the sea for tuppence a week in some
dirty hooker owned by some dirty owner who feeds his men on salt horse
and sends them to the bottom through overloading or for the sake of the
insurance money? No. If you care for a woman, put a pistol to her head
before you turn her into a sailor's wife, depending on a sailor's pay.
You have got to get the money that's owing to you from Schumer, and you
have got to get your satisfaction from him. I don't know how yet, but
I'll find out by thinking over it."

"You are right," said Floyd. "I have got to get the money, anyhow, even
if I don't get the satisfaction. But there's another point: Suppose I
do get the pearls; there's always a difficulty in selling them."

"You needn't worry about that," said Cardon. "I've got the means of
selling anything that is come by honestly. I have a good name among
a good set at 'Frisco. Now I'll tell you something you can't easily
believe; but if I wanted to borrow money in 'Frisco, I could do so to
the extent of thousands and thousands of dollars. There are two men
there, rich men, who would let me draw on them for what I liked; and
yet I have often borrowed a few dollars from a poor man--you remember
that five dollars I got from you and which I owe you still, by the way.
No, sir, I have never tapped those rich men because they are under
an obligation to me, and because they are my friends, and because I
know that they would be only too pleased to lend to me. Men are funny
things, and I guess I'm a man. Anyhow, that's how things stand. Now,
if I were to go to those men and say: 'Look here, I have got a fortune
in pearls, and I want to turn it into dollars,' those fellows would
put all their means at my disposal to get me the best price, and ten
to one they'd buy the stuff themselves, and my difficulty would be
to stop them from paying too big a price. One is Kane, of the Union
Pacific Company; the other is Calthorpe, the grain man. I knew them
first twenty years ago, when we were all dead beats together. Kane
started life as a newsboy, selling books on the cars of the Reading
Railway. He builds them now. Calthorpe started in life on the docks at
'Frisco, helping to load sacks of wheat. They don't load wheat in sacks
nowadays; his elevators do most of the work. Well, they are white men,
and though they have wives and daughters and carriages, they are always
glad to see me at their offices, and they are such gentlemen they have
never offered to start me in life. They take me as one of themselves,
and we have a clack and a smoke and a drink. I generally stand the
drinks, and I know they are green with envy of my stomach, for they
are both eaten up with dyspepsia. Now those chaps have succeeded in
life, but they haven't succeeded in keeping up their pleasure in
life. I have, and I reckon, when all's said and done, the account is
on my side. They are pretty well done to death with worry, living in
stuffed-up rooms, fighting every moment of the day to keep what they've
got, taking their food like medicine, and with gold teeth in their
heads to help them chew it; and here am I with every tooth in my head
and an appetite like a shark, clear two hundred, without an ache or
pain, breathing God's good air, and sailing to belt a chap over the
head and collar a pearl lagoon. I guess they'd change places if their
wives would let them."

"You have never grown old," said Floyd.

"I'm forty-five," replied Cardon, "and I don't want to grow any older,
and I wouldn't be an inch younger for worlds. A man only begins to live
properly when he's forty, and at forty-five he has just about found
himself. Well, I'm going on deck to have a breath of air. She seems to
be going a bit steadier; I expect the wind has fallen."

When they got on deck, they found that the wind had lost its gusty
character and had settled down into a steady blow. The land was very
far away, and only one sail was in sight--a full-rigged ship, almost
hull down on the horizon and white like a flake of spar. The _Southern
Cross_ was heading northeast, on a course that would leave Norfolk
Island some two hundred miles to port; and before her lay that great,
empty zone of sea which stretches from the Kermadec Islands to the
Tongas, and from the Australs to the Isle of Pines.

Some ten days out from Sydney, they hailed a steamer; she was the mail
boat from Auckland to Fiji, and the last trace of her smoke was the
last sign of man for many days.

The weather was perfect and the wind favorable, though moderate, as
they stole northward toward the line. Each day the sea became of a
deeper and deeper blue, and each day the sense of remoteness from the
world as we know it grew more intense.

The nights were tremendous with stars, and the days were scarcely days,
as days are reckoned with us. They left on the mind only one enduring
impression--great spaces of radiant blueness, infinite distance where
there was nothing but the send of the sea and the blowing of a tepid
wind.

One day, breaking the sea line on the starboard bow, came an island--a
dream of the sea, foam-stained and waving palms to the wind, the tepid
wind still blowing steadily and ceaselessly like the moist, warm breath
of million-leagued Capricorn. It was Rarotonga.

It faded away, and at sunset it had vanished. Next day, toward noon,
the Hervey Islands showed right ahead, and, like a white gull coming
from the islands toward them, a schooner. She passed only a few cable
lengths away, her canvas luminous and honey-colored with the sun. She
was a trader bound for the Tongas, and in an hour she was a speck to
the southward, while the Hervey Islands loomed more fully ahead, only
to be passed with the sunset and wiped away utterly by the night.

One evening Floyd, who had been working out the reckoning, said to
Cardon:

"To-morrow, if this wind holds good, we ought to arrive--somewhere
about noon, I should say."

"Good!" said Cardon. "And now I'll tell you of the plan that's been in
my head for the last couple of days. We have no longer to reckon with
Luckman; he has evidently miscarried. Still, Schumer will give us all
the work we want. My plan is this, and it's simple enough. When we drop
anchor, he's almost sure to come on board. Well, you must receive him
on deck and ask him down into the main cabin. I'll be ambushed in your
cabin.

"Out I'll step, put Joe's muzzle to his head, and say, 'Hands up!' When
he's disarmed, we'll give him a fair hearing and a fair trial; you'll
be judge, and I'll be jury. Then we'll lock him up in your cabin to
pray for his sins, and I'll keep watch on him while you go ashore and
collect the pearls and the girl.

"You'll bring them off, and then we'll put to sea. Outside the reef
we'll put Schumer in a boat and let him row ashore. Then we'll upstick
back to Sydney, and there you and I will have an interview with
Hakluyt, fling Luckman and all that business in his teeth, and gag him
with it. Then we'll make for 'Frisco by the mail boat. You see, we must
take the schooner back to Sydney, or else be had, maybe, for stealing
her. Well, what do you think of the plan?"

Floyd was silent for a moment.

"Suppose," said he, "Schumer doesn't put his hands up when you tell
him. Suppose he goes for his revolver?"

"Then I'll shoot."

"Suppose he comes on board with half a dozen of those natives and
brings them armed? It's not likely, but Schumer is just the man to do
an unlikely thing of that sort."

"If we see him coming off with a boatload of those scalawags, we must
change our plan. I can hide till we are able to get him onto the
schooner alone; but there's no use supposing too much. What we want is
a plan to go on, and that's the best I can think of."

"Well," said Floyd, "I don't like it, and that's the truth. It's a good
enough plan, no doubt, but there seems to me something treacherous
about it. I don't mean that in a nasty way, or as reflecting on you.
All the same, it's a plan I'd hate to carry out."

"Well, and who forces us to use treachery, as you call it? If you hide
behind a bush to shoot a tiger, is that treachery? No, it would be if
you were dealing with a man; it isn't if you are dealing with a tiger.
Schumer is a tiger; or, more like, a polecat; and if you don't use
treachery, he will. He has already, in fact."

"He'd still have the lagoon," said Floyd, wavering.

"Yes, we'd leave him the lagoon--not for love, but for our own sakes.
I've been figuring the thing out, and we'd better let the lagoon go. If
we tried to cling to it, we would have to tear Schumer's claws loose
from it, not to speak of Hakluyt's. If we leave it to them, it will be
a sop in the pan and will stop them from making any worry. We only want
the pearls already captured. They'll do for us."

Floyd heaved a sigh. He could not but see the force of Cardon's
reasoning. Schumer deserved punishment, beyond all question; he had
plotted with Hakluyt, and the plot had only failed to materialize owing
to some accident or some rascality on the part of Luckman toward his
fellow conspirators. Still, he hated the idea of the whole business.
Inveigling a man into the cabin and then clapping a pistol to his head
was a plan of action that would never have occurred to him. Cardon was
thicker skinned. All the same, he could not help feeling that Cardon
was right.

There are some men whom it is impossible to deal with as gentlemen,
just as there are some men whom it is impossible to fight with
according to the rules of the prize ring. Schumer was one of them.

Floyd thought the matter over for a moment, and came to the conclusion
that Cardon was right. "I have no right to criticize your plan," he
answered, "since I haven't any plan of my own to offer instead of it.
We'll leave it at that, and trust to luck, and if it comes to doing
what you say, I will, of course, back you, unless I hit on any idea
between this and to-morrow."

He went on deck. The _Southern Cross_, carrying every stitch of her
canvas, was making a good ten knots, and the foam in her wake had
a phosphorescence as though she were leaving behind her a cloud of
luminous smoke that clung to the water and refused to rise. Never
had he seen the stars more wonderful, or a night more lovely. There
was little of the heaviness and languor of the tropics; and but for
Canopus and the Cross blazing overhead it might have been a night of
June in northern latitudes.

Floyd stood by the fellow at the wheel for a little while, and then he
walked forward, and, leaning against the lee rail, looked over the sea.
From the fo'c'sle came the sound of a concertina, faint and indistinct;
that and the creak of cordage and the slashing of the bow wash were the
only sounds in all that infinity of night and silence.

He was thinking of Isbel and the island invisible, but surely there
beyond the rim of the sea. There were moments when the whole thing
seemed a fantastic dream--Schumer, and the pearls, and the island,
and the woman he loved. Was it possible that he would see her on the
morrow?




CHAPTER XXXI

THE ISLAND


Next morning early, Floyd was on deck and aloft with a glass. He knew
it was impossible, at their rate of sailing, that the island could show
up before noon. They might not even sight it before sundown. Yet, all
the same, he was on the lookout. There was nothing; nothing but the
great wheel of the sea. Not even a gull showed in the whole of that
blue expanse.

He came down, disappointed, and was gloomy and absent-minded at
breakfast, though Cardon was cheerful enough.

Toward eleven o'clock, when they were on deck smoking and talking, a
great bird passed them, flying straight ahead.

"That chap is going twenty knots," said Cardon. "I reckon he could make
forty if he wanted to. He's not much of an indication that there's land
about, for a thousand miles to him is less than a thirty-mile walk to
you or me. Say, Floyd, how would it be if we couldn't find your island?
I heard a yarn once of a chap who spotted a guano island. He said it
was a solid slab of guano a mile wide, and he started for 'Frisco and
got up a syndicate to work it, and they chartered a schooner and had a
champagne breakfast to start on; and when they reached the spot, the
darned thing had gone--sunk into the sea."

"Rubbish!" said Floyd. "And I wish you wouldn't start those sorts of
yarns just now; it's not lucky."

"Oh, I am only joking. Your island is there, safe enough, with Schumer
on top of it. That sort of chap never sinks into the sea; it's only the
good men Davy Jones troubles about. He's a mascot, sure."

Floyd did not answer him; he was staring right ahead.

"When I sighted it first," said he, "I was in an open boat that gave
very little horizon, and what struck me first was the sky. It was pale,
just a patch of it, a sort of glittering paleness that was caused by
the lagoon. Have you ever seen that mark in the sky above a lagoon
island?"

"Can't say I have, but then I'm not so used to the Pacific as you are.
Do you see anything now?"

"No," said Floyd. "I wish I did."

Cardon whistled gently to himself, tapping the ashes out of his pipe
against the rail and refilling it. He was just as anxious as Floyd, but
his anxiety had not such a keen edge and he hid it better. There were
times when he, like Floyd, almost doubted the reality of the island.

He was bending in the shelter of the bulwark to light his pipe when a
hail came from aloft.

Floyd had stationed a lookout in the crosstrees, and it was his voice
that came, high and clear, like the call of a bird.

Next moment the two men were swarming up the ratlines and looking
forward in the direction to which the fellow was pointing.

"It's the island!" said Floyd.

Cardon looked.

All he could see at first was a tiny mark on the sea line, a mark no
larger than a pin head; then, as his eyes grew more accustomed to the
dazzle, another tiny mark appeared close to the first, and then another.

Then these marks became fused together, forming a faint line.

The lookout had a glass with him, and Floyd, taking it, found that it
gave scarcely any better definition than the naked eye. The shimmer of
the sea formed a veil more impenetrable than the veil of distance.

He handed the glass to Cardon, who was clinging to the ratlines below
him.

"It's land, sure enough," said Cardon, "and another hour will bring it
right up. We'd better go down and wait on deck; no use sticking here."

In less than an hour the palm tops showed clearly through the glass,
and in two hours' time the reef could be made out and the white thread
of the foam breaking upon it.

It was the island, surely enough, though still a great way off--so far
that from the deck and with the naked eye nothing could be seen but a
faint smudge that might have been a trace of smoke clinging to the sea
line.

The wind had fallen a bit, and now, as if beneath the weight of
afternoon, it was falling still more.

Floyd hove the log. They were making seven knots, and he calculated
that it would be sundown before they could make the break in the reef.

Dinner was served, but they could scarcely eat; the weather held all
their thoughts, and the dread of the wind falling to a flat calm was on
both their minds.

At four o'clock, however, the wind was still steady, and the land ahead
was visible now clearly from the deck.

Floyd, who had gone aloft, suddenly hailed Cardon, who was on deck, and
the latter came up to him.

"Look out and tell me what you see," said Floyd, handing him the glass
he had been using.

Cardon looked through the glass.

"By gad," said he, "there's a vessel in the lagoon."

The glass showed the reef and the grove on the right of the break
distinctly. The break in the reef was not so clear, as they were
heading slightly to the south of it; but very clearly indeed could be
seen the threadlike masts of a vessel anchored in the lagoon. She was
stripped of canvas. She was a schooner.

Cardon handed the glass up again to Floyd, who took another long look;
then the two men came down on deck.

"That's Luckman!" said Floyd.

"'Pears so," said Cardon, "unless it's some vessel blown in by chance."

"No, it's no chance. I feel convinced of that. He started ahead of us,
and maybe laid over us in sailing. Let's go down below and have a talk
over this."

They went down to the cabin, and Floyd took his seat at the table while
Cardon took the couch.

"You see, it explains everything," said Floyd. "Explains why Luckman
did not sail with us, and why Hakluyt looked so cheerful, which he
wouldn't have done had his plans fallen through."

"If what you say is right," said Cardon, "it makes everything a lot
worse, for why should these scoundrels employ two ships unless they
are determined to lose one of them? You may bet the _Southern Cross_
is insured to the hilt and over. You say Hakluyt had her into dry dock
and spent money having her scraped when she did not want it. That was
all part of the plan to allay suspicion, for what would the ordinary
fool say but that a man wouldn't spend money like that on a ship he was
going to lose."

"Besides," said Floyd, "if Hakluyt had sent Luckman with me, what
reason could he have given me for sending him? We don't want another
white man in this business--well, what excuse could Hakluyt have given
me for shoving Luckman in?"

"None," said Cardon, "that I can see; but that's not saying a clever
rascal like Hakluyt couldn't have found some excuse."

Floyd suddenly struck the table with his fist.

"The _Domain_ wasn't at her anchorage when we left," said he. "I
noticed it, but I never thought of it as being connected with us."

"The _Domain_? What vessel was she?"

"One of Hakluyt's, a schooner. She was pointed out to me as belonging
to him, and before we started I noticed that she wasn't at her
anchorage. I thought nothing of that, for a shipowner doesn't keep
ships to anchor them out and leave them to rot. But there's the fact,
and I'll bet my life that schooner in the lagoon is the _Domain_."

"You're probably right," said Cardon. "Anyhow, we'll soon see. Now
let's talk of my share in the business. If Luckman is really here, it
means that your destruction has been plotted and planned to the last
tip end. It means that there must be no quarter for Schumer."

"If Luckman is here," said Floyd, rising and pacing the cabin, "Schumer
will get no quarter from me. Not a ha'porth of mercy."

"I'm glad you are beginning to see things in their proper light,"
said Cardon. "And now to business. I must keep hidden; I can stay in
your cabin, and you must get these two fellows on board as quick as
possible. It may be that Schumer will board us right away when we get
into the lagoon. He's almost sure to. It may be that he will bring
Luckman with him. Now I think the best plan, if Schumer boards us right
off and by himself, is to deal with him at once, lock him up here, and
then land and deal with Luckman."

"Maybe you are right," said Floyd.

"I'm sure I am. There's nothing like grasping your nettle right off,
and it will give them no time to conspire together. Of course, if they
both come aboard, so much the better. You speak to them fair, and
bring them down here, get them seated at the table before some drink;
then I'll open the cabin door and enter, smiling. Directly you see
me, draw your gun and cover one of them. Cover Luckman; that will be
pleasanter for you, seeing that Schumer is known to you and was once
your friend--or pretended to be. When we have disarmed them, we will
tie them up."

"Suppose they succeed in drawing their pistols?"

"In that case we must shoot first, and shoot to kill. There's no use
in putting on kid gloves in this matter. Your life has been planned
against; these two chaps are out against you, and they've got to be
scotched. Do you feel equal to the job? If not, we had better 'bout
ship and make back to Sydney."

"God help me," said Floyd, "but what I would have shuddered at a few
days ago leaves me now without the least feeling. It's finding Luckman
here, I suppose, finding that the plot against me is absolutely true. I
don't know. But the idea of killing those men seems no more to me than
the idea of killing a pair of scorpions."

"That's right," said Cardon. "You'll do all right. And now up with
you on deck--I don't appear till the business begins. If I were to go
on deck now, there's no knowing that I mightn't be spotted through a
glass. Give me your fist."

The two men shook hands.

Then Floyd went on deck, where the hands were crowded forward, gazing
at the island, which was now so close that the individual trees could
be distinguished, the coral, and the surf breaking on the outer beach.

Floyd's heart leaped in him at the sight. He took the glass from its
sling near the wheel and examined the shore through it. Not a sign of
life could be seen.

The house was, of course, hidden by the grove, and it was quite
unlikely that any one might be here on the seaward side of the reef;
still, the absence of all signs of life struck a chill to the heart of
Floyd, the illogical heart of the man who loves.

The wind was still holding steady, and the _Southern Cross_ was making
good way.

Now they were so close that he fancied he could hear the tune of the
surf on the coral; and now they were opening the break of the reef, and
the lagoon showed mirror calm as compared to the sea.

Floyd took the wheel.

The schooner held for a moment on her course; then, answering to the
helm, made full for the opening in the reef. The tide was with them,
and like a white cloud the _Southern Cross_ passed the pierheads of the
reef and entered the lagoon.

Floyd handed the wheel over to Mountain Joe, gave his orders to the
fellows at the halyards and the braces, and walked forward. There was,
indeed, another vessel in the lagoon, and she was the _Domain_. He
could not be mistaken. She was anchored a good way out from the shore,
and he maneuvered to get the inner berth. Even as he did so, his eye
caught sight of a figure that had just emerged from the grove. It was
Isbel.

He ran to the bulwark rail and flung up his arm just as the roar of the
anchor chain through the hawse pipe cut the air. Isbel waved her hand
in reply. She was alone. Not a sign of Schumer or Luckman was to be
seen, and Floyd, half mad with delight, started orders for the quarter
boat to be lowered, and helped with his own hands at the falls.

When the boat touched the beach he sprang out knee-deep in the water,
waded ashore, and caught her two hands in his.

Then he remembered the fellows in the boat and the possibility that
Schumer might be watching from some post of observation. He released
her hands and led the way up to the house.

"Schumer?" said he. "Where is Schumer?"

Isbel nodded toward the fishing camp.

"Over there," said she; "he and the new man. They will only know that
you have come now. I saw you very far at sea, but I said nothing. I
was to light a fire if I saw a ship, but I knew it was you, and I did
nothing."

They had entered the house, and were safe from observation.

"Isbel," said Floyd.

He held her apart from him for a moment; then he caught her in his arms.

She clung to him, holding him about the neck with her naked arms,
telling him in a broken voice and a half whisper how she had waited
and watched always for him; how she had prayed to the sea to bring him
back, and the stars to light him on his way. Then holding him from her
she told, in short, hot sentences, fierce as stabbing spears, of his
danger.

A new ship had come into the lagoon only the day before; a new man had
joined Schumer, a terrible man. They had talked last night, and she
had listened. No sooner had this strange man shown his face than she
suspected danger; he "carried danger with him." So she had listened.
They had not talked in the house; they had gone together and sat by the
grove edge. She had crawled through the trees and listened. At first
she could not make out what they said, they spoke in so low a tone;
then, feeling safe and forgetting caution, they spoke louder. Even
still she could seize upon nothing definite, as they spoke in a general
way as if about some prearranged plot, but she gathered enough to know
that Luckman had come to the island to wait for the man she loved,
and then, with the help of Schumer, or, more properly speaking, the
connivance of Schumer, to do away with him.

As she told this her gaze seemed to turn inward, as though she were
looking at some mental picture, and a long shudder ran through her as
though from some vibration of the soul. It was not the shudder of fear
or cold; it was the shudder of hate, and Floyd, who had never seen it
before, felt for a moment almost afraid of Isbel. He recognized, and
not for the first time, that this being whom he loved belonged to a
world of which he knew little. She was a person from another star, the
child of another race. In her love for him a whole unknown world was
rushing to meet him. It was this that completed her fascination and
made him, now heedless of Schumer's menace, seize her to his heart and
cover her face and throat with burning kisses. Taking fire she returned
them, and then, holding him apart from her again, and still speaking in
those sentences, short and hot like stabbing spears that have already
tasted blood, she went on to give him all that she had gathered and
all that she suspected. She knew for certain that Luckman and Schumer
were expecting Floyd, for they had mentioned him by name, and she knew
for certain that they had designs upon the life of the man they were
expecting, and here lay her great grief; she could not fathom the
nature of their design. She had, however, gathered enough to understand
that the Kanaka crew of the _Southern Cross_ was to be brought ashore
as soon as possible.

"Yes," said Floyd, "they are going to do away with the schooner.
Well, we will see. We will see which of us is the cuter and which the
stronger. Isbel, I am not alone."

"How?" said Isbel, looking at him with wide-open eyes.

"I have a friend with me."

"A friend!"

"Yes, a friend. Providence sent him, I think." He began to tell her
about Cardon, how he had met him in the street in Sydney, how Cardon
had joined in the venture and was ready to assist against Schumer, and
how he was now on board the _Southern Cross_ awaiting developments.

He had reached this stage in his story when a sound from outside made
them both turn. It was the sound of oars in rowlocks.

Floyd sprang to the door. A boat that had crossed the lagoon from the
fishing ground was within a few yards of the beach. It was the boat
bringing Schumer from the fishing camp.

A man was seated beside Schumer in the stern sheets. Was it Luckman?

If indeed it was Luckman, then Luckman was a most formidable
individual. This person seated beside Schumer was immense, a great
four-square built man beside whom Schumer had the appearance of a youth.

As the boat touched the sand Schumer leaped out, and, half wading, made
up the beach toward Floyd, who had come down from the house. Isbel had
remained indoors.

"So you're back," cried Schumer, as he held out his hand. "I knew
nothing till half an hour ago over there at the fishing ground I
turned my head and saw the _Southern Cross_ coming into the lagoon.
Isbel should have spotted her hours ago and given us a signal. Oh,
I forgot. I have a new man to introduce you to, but you've seen his
vessel; it ran in here yesterday for water. It is the _Domain_, of
Sydney, owned by--who do you think?--Hakluyt, and here's her captain;
Luckman is his name. Luckman, this is Mr. Floyd."

Just as Floyd held out his hand toward Luckman a curious sensation
struck him, as though for a moment he were clairvoyant, as though for
the hundredth part of a moment some glimpse had been given him of his
psychic surroundings, a glimpse of the soul of Schumer, of Luckman, and
incidentally of Hakluyt. It was Luckman's appearance, perhaps, that
influenced him.

Luckman, though a very big man at a distance, was a very little man
seen close to. In other words, he had nothing to recommend him but his
size. He had, no doubt, been all that the barkeeper had hinted. He had,
no doubt, sunk ships in his time and lost the lives of innumerable
sailormen and escaped from the law himself by a miracle. All the same,
from the crown of his flat head to the sole of his flat feet, the man
was a duffer, a mass of brute force--nothing more. And the thing that
struck Floyd most keenly at that moment was the thought that Luckman,
like himself, was in the toils of Schumer and Hakluyt; that Luckman
might be used as a tool against him--Floyd--but would be inevitably
flung away when used by Schumer and Hakluyt. That they would take the
opportunity not only of getting rid of the _Southern Cross_ at a high
insurance and of their troublesome partner, but also of Luckman, their
tool and assistant.

The fact that Schumer had taken Luckman to the fishing ground and let
him see the secret of the island with his own eyes, that fact seemed to
Floyd to be Luckman's death sentence.

"Glad to meet you," said Luckman, holding out a fist like a ham.

"It's funny that you should have turned up here," said Floyd, "for only
a very little time ago I parted with Mr. Hakluyt, your owner."

"Yes," said Luckman, "it's funny enough to see two of Hakluyt's vessels
in the same lagoon, considering the many lagoons there are in the
Pacific. I was bound for Upolo, and was blown a bit out of my course,
then I picked up this island and put in for water, and when Mr. Schumer
here found Hakluyt was my owner he _was_ surprised--weren't you, Mr.
Schumer?"

He laughed as he asked the question, and Schumer laughed as he replied
in the affirmative.

"The strange thing is," said Floyd gravely, "that I left Sydney, came
straight down here, and here I find the _Domain_, who has missed Upolo,
which is a good way out of the line, been blown out of her course, and
yet has arrived here only a day before me."

"And how is that strange?" asked Luckman.

"In this way: I saw the _Domain_ in Sydney harbor two days before I
left, riding at her anchor. How the deuce has she managed to go through
all those experiences you speak of and yet arrive here only the day
before me?"

"And what date was it when you left Sydney?" asked Luckman.

Floyd gave the date.

"Well, all I can say," said Luckman, "is that the _Domain_ left ten
days before that. You must be thinking of the _Dominion_, which is also
owned by Hakluyt. She's a sister of the _Domain_, built on the same
slip, owned by Shuster, she was, till he went bankrupt and Hakluyt
picked her up for an old song. That's the vessel that's in your head.
I left her anchored in Sydney harbor when I left." Floyd said nothing.
Luckman's manner was so assured and plausible that had he not overheard
that fatal conversation in Hakluyt's office he would have been entirely
taken in. He turned to Schumer as if to change the subject.

"Well," said he, "how has the luck been going?"

Schumer took him by the arm and led him away a bit along the water edge.

"I'm glad you are back," said he, "before that man Luckman leaves.
It's a nuisance, his coming. Of course he's one of Hakluyt's men, else
I'd have made him clear out of the lagoon when he'd taken his water on
board. As it is he knows all about the pearling. He scented it at once,
and spoke to me of it. You see, he's an old island hand, so I just told
him, and, what's more, took him right over the grounds. I did a bit of
trade with him, too. He had some timber and corrugated iron on board,
and I bought it of him, and we've been rafting it over all yesterday
and to-day. I'm going to put up huts over at the fishing camp. The
rains will be here soon, now, and I want to get the fellows under
cover."

"Oh, is that so?" said Floyd.

He could not make out all this in the least, but he determined to say
nothing and wait for more indications.

"Yes," said Schumer, "it's most important for us to keep these fellows
fit and well, and tents aren't much use against the rains, especially
in an exposed place like the grounds over there. Seems like Providence,
doesn't it, that fellow Luckman happening along with his building
material just at the moment?"

"Schumer," said Floyd, "are you sure it's all right about Luckman?"

Schumer turned on him with a surprised look. "Why, what could be wrong?"

"Well, I could have sworn I saw the _Domain_ in the harbor two days
before I left."

"In Sydney harbor?"

"Yes, in Sydney harbor."

"My dear chap," said Schumer, "you heard what he said--what could be
wrong? Even if Hakluyt were to try to get the better of us in any way
what could Luckman do? Steal the pearls? Well, I reckon he'd have
his work cut out, considering we are two to one. No. You have made a
mistake. It was the _Dominion_ you saw. Mind you, I wouldn't trust
Hakluyt farther than I could see him, but it's against common sense to
think that he is trying to play any game against us. You see, the crew
of the _Domain_ are all Kanakas, and not fighting Kanakas, either, but
a soft lot; otherwise it might be different. Then again Luckman is off
to-morrow. Oh, you needn't be a bit scared of Luckman; I'm sharp enough
to smell a rat, as you very well know, and I'm satisfied."

"Very well," said Floyd.

"Now as to the building business," went on Schumer, "I want all the
_Southern Cross_ chaps to get to work on it first thing to-morrow, so
we may as well get them over to the fishing camp to-night."

"To-night!"

"Yes, they'll be able to stretch their legs before setting to, and
they'll want to put up tents for themselves while they are working."

"Very well. I can send them over in the whaleboat."

"That will do after supper," said Schumer.

The sun at this moment was just setting beyond the reef, and a thin
wreath of smoke was rising near the grove where Isbel was busy lighting
the fire and getting supper ready. Luckman was seated on the sand, near
the house, smoking and seemingly oblivious to everything but the beauty
of the scene before him.

The crew of the _Southern Cross_ were fraternizing across the water
with the crew of the _Domain_. Their thin, high-pitched voices came
across the lagoon water and mixed with the crying of the gulls who
were flocking around the vessels, picking up scraps from the rubbish
that the fellows had hove overboard. Then, as the sun sank, the crying
of the gulls died down and silence fell on the island with the night,
a silence only broken by the song of the surf and the blowing of the
night wind in the foliage of the grove.

Isbel, having prepared the meal, had disappeared, and the three men
found themselves alone by the flickering camp fire. It was the night
before the new moon, and beyond the zone of firelight the lagoon showed
all shot with stars, and the two schooners gray black with their
anchor lights shining in the twilight of the stars.

Schumer had produced a bottle of wine in honor of Luckman, but despite
the wine and Schumer's attempts at conviviality the talk hung fire.

Floyd was thinking hard.

Schumer's suggestion that the crew of the _Southern Cross_ should be
landed over at the fishing beach was plausible on the face of it. The
men would work better after a night on shore; they would be on the spot
in the morning, and so no time would be wasted bringing them across the
lagoon, and it was certainly necessary that no time should be lost in
putting up the huts, if they were to be put up, for the rainy season
was fast approaching. All the same, he felt that there was more in the
proposition than what met the eye.

He did not like the idea of being left alone here with Schumer and
Luckman. It was true that the crew of the _Domain_ would be on board
their vessel, but she was anchored a good way out. The conviction came
to him that whatever these two men had in mind was to be carried out
that night, and that the _Southern Cross_ would be the object of their
plans as well as himself. Most possibly they would sink her at her
anchorage after having disposed of him.

He determined, come what might, not to sleep ashore, and as they were
finishing supper he made up his mind to state his intention at once.

"Well," said he, "I suppose I'd better get off and send those fellows
across to the camp. I'll give them the whaleboat; it will hold the lot."

"Yes," said Schumer, "I'll come with you and start them off, and maybe
you'd better sleep on board for to-night, as I've put Captain Luckman
up in the house and there's only two beds."

"Yes, I'll sleep aboard," said Floyd, relieved, yet somewhat surprised
at Schumer suggesting the very plan that was in his mind. "I've got all
my tackle there, besides--well, shall we start?"

He looked round, on the chance of seeing Isbel, but she was nowhere
about; then they left Luckman, smoking by the fire, and, going down to
the lagoon edge, pushed off the quarter boat which was lying by the
dinghy. They would have taken the dinghy, only that she had developed
a leak. Schumer explained this as they rowed, and Floyd scarcely heard
him; he was thinking of Isbel.

He could not possibly take her off with him, and she was safer ashore
in the dangerous business that he felt was developing. He had no fear
of harm coming to her left alone with Schumer and Luckman, for she was
well able to take care of herself, and she was armed. She had told him
so. All the same his heart felt heavy as lead at leaving her, even
though they were separated only by a couple of cable lengths of water.

On board, he gave orders to Mountain Joe for the landing of the crew,
and in a moment the deck was swarming. The idea of getting ashore set
the fellows chattering and carrying on like school children just set
free, and there were no hands wanted to assist at the falls.

In a moment the whaleboat was lowered and alongside and the crew
tumbling into her. Schumer helped in the lowering of the boat and
shouted directions to Mountain Joe, who took the stern oar.

"They'll find canvas enough over there if they want to make tents,"
said Schumer. "As like as not they will prefer sleeping in the open on
a night like this. There they go."

The whaleboat had pushed off, and was now out in the lagoon, making
good way despite its heavy load.

It looked like a huge, heavy-bodied beetle crawling across the surface
of the lagoon.

Schumer turned away and followed Floyd down to the cabin for a drink.
Floyd had shipped some Bitter Water at Sydney, and he opened a bottle
now and produced glasses from the swinging rack by the door. He also
brought out a box of cigars.

Schumer took a cigar and a drink, and sat down at the table, placing
his hat upon it.

Floyd took his place opposite to him, and they sat smoking and talking
on indifferent matters, Floyd trying to keep pace with the situation
and at the same time to appear his ordinary self.

Should he deal with Schumer now and at once or let him go ashore and
then have a consultation with Cardon?

Cardon, he knew, was listening to every word of their conversation, and
he had a great respect for Cardon's judgment. He determined to explain
the situation to Cardon now and at once and through his conversation
with Schumer.

"It was a good idea of yours to send all the crew ashore at the fishing
camp so as to have them on the spot for working in the morning," said
he. "Of course that only leaves me on board, and I'm a jolly sight too
tired to stand an anchor watch. However, we don't want an anchor watch
in this lagoon. There's nothing to look out for but sharks."

"That's so," replied Schumer.

"Luckman is off to-morrow, you say?"

"Yes, he'll be off to-morrow if this wind holds."

"Well, I'm glad to have met him. He didn't give me a very good
impression at first sight, but he improves a bit on acquaintance. He
must be a powerfully strong man. I'd sooner have him at my back in a
fight than against me."

"Yes," said Schumer, "I reckon he could hold his own against any two
men, or maybe three, but he's all strength, not much intelligence."

"And it's the intelligence that counts nowadays," said Floyd. "You see,
if a man has a gun and some intelligence, brute force doesn't count for
much, or even numbers. I had an adventure once that proved that to me.
I was held up in the cabin of a ship by two ruffians--it was off the
South American coast--and I didn't resist simply for the reason that
a friend of mine was close by whom I reckoned to be a much cleverer
chap than myself. He was lying in his bunk, and the fellows couldn't
see him. I waited for his lead. His name was Cardon, and I determined
to let him decide whether I should put up a fight at once or just sit
still and let myself be robbed. It was the funniest sensation, sitting
there and waiting for another man's brains to work out the situation,
but I was right. The upshot was I recovered my money." He yawned, and
then suddenly, switching off the subject: "There's no fear, is there,
of Luckman getting too close to the pearls? Mind you, I'm not going
against your judgment about the man. All the same, temptation is
temptation, and it's as well to be on our guard."

"The pearls are all right," said Schumer. "They are in the safe, and
the safe is in the inner room of the house, and I sleep there."

He rose to go, flicking the ash of his cigar onto the floor. Floyd rose
also.

There was no sign from Cardon, so he knew that wily person had decided
to let Schumer go ashore. Then he accompanied the other on deck.

The boat in which Schumer had come was alongside. He got into it, bade
Floyd good night, and rowed ashore. Floyd watched him land. He saw
Luckman come down from the house to help in beaching the boat, and
then the two men walked up to the house. They entered it, and closed
the door, and then beach and reef and grove lay deserted under the
starlight.

Floyd left the deck and came down to the cabin, and there, at the
table, Cardon was seated.

"You've done well," said Cardon. "I was afraid you would open the game
too soon. Sit down there and give me a few points. What's Luckman like?"

"Like a beast," said Floyd.

"I heard all you said," went on Cardon. "Schumer has got all the men
off the ship, hasn't he?"

"Yes."

"That's their first move, and they mean business to-night--when you are
sleeping. They won't act for an hour or two yet, so we have plenty of
time."

"What's their game, do you think?" asked Floyd.

"It's as simple as sin. They mean to row off, steal down here, knock
you on the head, and then scuttle the schooner. They'll reckon to take
you sleeping. That's their game, and as like as not, when the business
is done, Schumer will do Luckman in and sink him with the ship."

"Good God!" said Floyd. "I was thinking that myself to-night, and yet
you who have never seen Schumer suspected it, too."

"Simply because I have studied out the whole proposition while I was
lying in that stuffy bunk. Can't you see how it stands? They must get
rid of Luckman. The only thing that gravels me is this: Why did they
ever bring Luckman into the affair at all? Why didn't Schumer knock you
on the head, do the thing off his own bat, so to speak?

"I can only work it out like this: If he had done that there would
have been witnesses sure. The crew of the _Southern Cross_ would have
smelled a rat. There's nothing more likely to pop out than murder if
there are any witnesses that know the murdered party. Schumer wants to
break off from the island and every one connected with the pearling.
Most likely he suspects the lagoon is beginning to give out. Anyhow, he
has got a big lot of stuff, and it's my belief that his plan is to cut
his stick instantly you are out of the way, leave the island and the
lagoon and the niggers to look after themselves, and set sail in the
_Domain_ with the boodle he's got. That's why he has landed the crew."

"You mean to say he will desert the island and never come back?"

"Yes."

"But surely if he did a thing like that it would only mean losing a
good property. I don't believe the lagoon is giving out. There was no
indication of it."

"I only suggested that. It may be giving out or it mayn't, but there's
this fact, you must admit--the lagoon is not real estate; you have no
title to it. Suppose an English man-of-war shoves her nose in and asks
you what you are doing here. What will you say? That you are looking
for mushrooms? English, French, or German, the first ship that gets
wind of the business does for you. They'll mark it down on their chart
and say to you: 'This is our island; get out!' Suppose even a trader
comes along and sniffs you. Do you think they're going to leave a
jeweler's shop like this severely alone? Do you think they won't say
'half shares or we split'? No, sir. You and Schumer have had a very
good swig at this cornucopia. It's amazing you haven't been interfered
with before this. The common-sense thing is to take what you've got and
do a bunk, cut all connections with the business, and don't leave a rag
of yourselves behind. That's what Schumer is going to do. Of course
he'll have to play fair with Hakluyt so as to get rid of the pearls and
have no trouble about the schooner. Then there's the insurance money on
the _Southern Cross_. That will be a nice penny for them to divide."

"I suppose you are right," said Floyd. "It's hateful--the whole thing.
The world seems suddenly to be filled with devils, not men. I could
never have fancied such villainy if I hadn't gone through it."

"Oh, you'll be pretty tough to this sort of thing when you are as
old as I am," said Cardon, "and when you have knocked about the west
American seaboard a dozen years or so. You don't know these chaps as
I do. A sailor doesn't know anything. You must leave the sea and stick
for a few years to the land as I have done to find the truth, and the
truth about the Pacific coast is that quite a lot of people don't give
a cent for the life of a man if it's worth a dollar to them.

"Now, there's no use in sticking down here any longer. We'd better be
getting up on deck and taking our position. I've got a plan in my head
which you'll see put in work before long. Have you got your gun?"

Floyd showed the butt of his revolver.

"Right!" said Cardon. "And now, first of all, let's make everything
straight."

There were three glasses on the table, his own, Floyd's, and the one
Schumer had drunk from. He renewed his own glass, looked round to make
sure that he had left no trace of his presence anywhere, put out the
light, and led the way on deck.

At the top of the companionway he turned to Floyd, who was below him.

"Don't show yourself above the bulwarks," said he. "Crawl along the
deck after me to the caboose. That's the place for us to hide and wait
for them."

"Right!" said Floyd.

They crawled along on hands and knees till they reached the caboose
door. It opened to the starboard, and as the _Southern Cross_ was
swinging to the incoming tide, with her nose to the break in the reef,
the door of the caboose faced the _Domain_, and consequently could not
be seen from the shore.

Cardon opened the door, and they went in, closing the door behind them.

The place was terribly stuffy and filled with the smell of grease and
cooking. The copper was still hot, which did not improve matters, and
cockroaches were in evidence even in that darkness.

There was a scuttle giving aft, and in a moment Floyd had opened it.
It gave a view of the whole of the deck aft, and though there was no
moon the starlight showed everything. The main hatch, with its cover
of tarpaulin, the saloon hatch, the bulwarks, and the planking of the
deck so clearly that the lines of division between the planks could be
traced, and even the dowels that fixed the planking to the beams.

It was a noisome hole to be cooped up in, but it was a splendid post of
observation, though, from the size of the scuttle, only one man could
keep a lookout at a time.

"We'll take it turn about," said Cardon, "and the chap that's off duty
can sit on the copper and keep it warm. We haven't a watch, and a watch
would be no use to us, as we daren't show a light; so we'll have to
guess the length of the trick. Ten minutes each will be the length of
the lookout as far as we can make it. I'll take first, if you don't
mind."

Floyd had no objection, and he sat on a ledge by the copper, listening
and waiting in the dark while Cardon stood on watch. The ship was full
of sounds. On deck everything seemed bathed in dead silence, but here,
listening in the dark, all sorts of little noises came to greet the ear
and imagination.

The outside sea sent a vague, almost imperceptible, swell into the
lagoon, and as she moved to it she creaked and muttered and groaned,
masts, spars, and body timber all finding points of greater and lesser
tension and every point a tiny voice.

The rudder shifted now and then slightly, and the rudder chain clicked
in response. There were rats on board, and they made themselves
audible, and there was a nest of young rats somewhere under the
planking, and their thriddy voices came in little bursts now and then,
telling of some disturbance in the nest. Floyd pictured to himself
the old mother rat suckling them while the father was out on business
seeking food, and he philosophized on the idea that even the timbers of
a ship may hide all sorts of interests and ambitions, affections and
hates.

An hour passed, during which he and Cardon relieved each other at the
lookout post several times, and it was during Cardon's watch, some
twenty minutes later, that the event occurred.

Suddenly a sound made itself heard that was not a sound born of the
ship. A faint splash came from alongside, followed by something quite
unmistakable--the sound of an oar shipped and laid along the seats of a
boat--incautiously. It had probably slipped from the hand of the rower
as he laid it inboard.

Floyd, who had heard the sound also, tipped Cardon's leg with his toe,
and Cardon, reaching out with his heel, signaled that he knew.

A few seconds passed, and then Cardon saw a form coming over the side.
It was Schumer. He had never seen Schumer, but from Floyd's description
he knew that it could not be Luckman. Then, surely enough, came Luckman
in all his immensity.

Neither man wore either boots or stockings, and their bare feet, wet
with the bilge water of the boat, shone in the starlight. Those
glistening feet fascinated Cardon. All the tragedy of the business
seemed focused in them, and, strong and brave though he was, they
exercised such a powerful psychological effect that for a moment he
could have retched.

The two men did not pause for more than a second. Soundless as shadows,
they made for the saloon hatch, while Cardon, who thought the moment
for action had arrived, moved slightly as if to leave his post.

Then he stopped.

Schumer and his companion, instead of going down below, were bending
over the hatch. They were closing it.

Cardon drew in his breath.

He saw at once their object. Instead of going down to kill the man
they imagined to be below, they were bottling him up. No man, however
strong, could force his way on deck through that hatch once closed.

Again he felt Floyd's toe, as if it were inquiring if all was right,
and, again reaching back, he signaled an answer. His eyes were glued to
the malefactors, who were now at the main hatch removing the tarpaulin.

It did not take long. Then they worked the locking bars loose and
removed the hatch with scarcely a sound. He saw Schumer produce
something. It was a lantern. They lit it, and Schumer, with it in his
hand, vanished down the main hatch into the hold. He was there a full
minute that seemed a full hour to the man at the scuttle; then he
reappeared. The hatch was closed, but the tarpaulin was not replaced,
and, leaving it, they came forward, Schumer carrying the light and
Luckman following him. They passed the caboose, and were lost to sight.

"Now is our time," whispered Cardon, turning from the scuttle. "We've
got them forward in a close space. Cock your gun and follow me."

He opened the caboose door and found a vacant deck.

For a moment he thought that the two men had gone overboard; then he
saw the truth. They had gone down into the fo'c'sle. Floyd saw the
situation and the chance in the same flash with Cardon, and in a moment
they had flung themselves on the fo'c'sle hatch cover and driven it to.

The men who fancied they had bottled Floyd were bottled in their turn.

They had imagined a vain thing, and the fact was evidently borne in on
them now to judge from the sounds coming from below.

The cover of the fo'c'sle hatch was placed at such an angle with the
fo'c'sle companionway that it was impossible to make much noise by
striking upward from below, and its thickness was well demonstrated by
the feebleness of the noise of the men who were now shouting at the top
of their voices.

"They're fixed and done for," said Cardon, "and I reckon Schumer will
start repenting in a minute that he sent the crew ashore. Come, we have
no time to waste here."

He ran to the port rail, followed by Floyd.

The boat Schumer and Luckman had come in was alongside. Every plan they
had made and every preparation seemed working now for their destruction
and for the success of their enemies. The thought crossed Floyd's mind
as he followed Cardon down into the boat, but there was little time to
think in, and, taking the stern oar while Cardon took the bow, they
pushed off for the shore.

Having beached the boat, Floyd led the way up to the house, and as they
approached it a figure came out of the grove into the starlight. It was
Isbel. Floyd ran up to her as Cardon entered the house; then, as he was
holding her hands and trying to tell her all that had occurred, Cardon
appeared at the house door with a lighted match in his hand.

"There's no safe here," said he.

He lit another match as they followed through the main into the inner
room.

There was nothing there at all, except the bed which Schumer slept on
and the tossed blankets. The safe, which had stood in one corner of the
room, was gone.

"That does us," said Floyd. He had fancied that the pearls were a
secondary consideration, that Isbel was the one and only thing. Now
he knew different. Isbel was not the only thing. Without the pearls
and the money they would fetch he was nothing. Nothing but a sailorman
earning a few shillings a week, tossed hither and thither about the
world at the will of an owner.

For one terrible minute before the loss of these things he felt his
poverty, and there is nothing much more terrible than that if one
loves. What had stricken him would strike Isbel. Where could he take
her? What could he do with her, he who had no home but a sailors'
lodging home, no resources but a miserable pittance only to be earned
at the cost of separation from her?

Cardon brought him back to himself.

"No, it doesn't," said Cardon, "but it saves us a lot of trouble. Can't
you see? The pearls and the safe are on board the _Domain_?"

"On board the _Domain_?"

"Where else? Didn't I tell you Schumer was going to shin out of here in
the _Domain_? Well, he has removed the safe there, and all we have to
do now is to go aboard the _Domain_, up anchor, and get away. He has
played into our hands all through, and every point he made against us
has turned against him. Don't you see?"

Floyd did. This last act of Schumer's put the finishing touch to the
business. Not only had he saved them the trouble of carrying off
the safe, but he had destroyed all qualms in the mind of Floyd. All
Schumer's plotting, so skillful, so carefully weighed, so intricate,
and so powerfully backed by Hakluyt with his ships and money had been
brought to naught by one little flaw, one accident--Floyd's surprisal
of Hakluyt's conversation with Luckman.

"Come!" said Cardon.

They hurriedly left the house, Cardon walking first, Floyd following
with Isbel, whose hand he was holding.

It was their good-by to the island. In that short walk from the house
door to the lagoon edge the fact that he was leaving what he nevermore
might see was brought vividly to the mind of Floyd. Never had the place
seemed more beautiful from the piers of the reef to the far-off fires,
where the pearl fishers were holding a revel beneath the palm trees
with the crew of the _Southern Cross_.

As they rowed across the lagoon, passing under the stern of the
_Southern Cross_, they could hear the songs brought by the wind across
the water from the fishing camp. Not a sound came from the schooner,
where the trapped men were no doubt fumbling in the fo'c'sle for some
means of escape, and not a sound came from the _Domain_, where the
whole crew, anchor watch included, were fast asleep. As they came
alongside the _Domain_, Cardon hailed her, and a fellow rousing on deck
came to the bulwark rail, rubbing his eyes. He cast a rope, and the
boat was made fast.

Then they came on board.

Three men had been sleeping on deck, the bos'n and two of the hands,
and when Cardon gave the order to rouse the crew and get the anchor up
just for a moment it seemed there was going to be trouble. Then Isbel
saved the situation.

"It is by Luckman's orders," said she, speaking in the native. "He is
staying here; the ship is to be taken where he wills," she finished,
pointing at Cardon. Had there been any resistance on the part of the
bos'n or the crew Cardon would have promptly dealt with it, but there
was none. They were an unsuspicious lot. There had been no sign of
disturbance on shore, and whether the ship sail under Luckman or under
Cardon did not matter a button to them. Besides, it was due to sail.
The water was on board, and Luckman had told them to be ready to weigh
anchor at any moment.

The wind was blowing steadily for the break in the reef, and now, had
you been ashore, you would have seen the mainsail of the _Domain_
rising like a black wing under the stars to the creaking of blocks and
slatting of canvas; then came the sound of the capstan pawls as the
anchor chain was hove short, and Floyd's voice ordering the jib to be
cast loose. The tide was near the turn, and it was just approaching the
moment of smooth water at the reef opening.

Floyd, before starting to work the vessel, had run down to the cabin,
where, sure enough, the safe was standing against the couch which ran
along the starboard side, and between it and the table.

Not only was the safe on board, but Schumer had also brought off
the tin cash box holding what remained to them of the money of the
_Cormorant_ and _Tonga_.

He had made a clean sweep, only to sweep it all into Floyd's pocket.

Floyd was thinking this as he stood on deck now giving orders for the
securing of the anchor which had left the water and was being hoisted,
dripping, to the catheads, and now as the mainsail filled to the wind
he took the wheel himself.

As he turned the spokes and got the feel of the ship answering to
his hand a faint, hot, acrid smell came on a puff of wind, a smell
of burning, though from where he could not say. He glanced back at
the far-off fires of the fishing camp, and fancied it might be coming
from that quarter. There was nowhere else possible for it to come from
except the _Southern Cross_, and the _Southern Cross_ showed no sign of
smoke or fire as she lay there mute and somber, her spars cutting the
starlit sky and her hull blackening with its shadow the starlit water.

So gently did the _Domain_ move that, viewed from the deck, it seemed
that past her, lying stationary, the reef and the trees were gliding
aft.

Then the pierheads of the reef passed like ghosts or shadows, and the
_Domain_ rose to the swell of the outer sea and sank, bursting the foam
away from her bow like snow.

Floyd gave the wheel over to the bos'n, and stood for a moment looking
aft across the sea; then he turned and went below, where Isbel was
waiting for him in the cabin.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cardon, left on deck, paced up and down, now with an eye on the
binnacle card, now glancing aft, as though on the watch for something
he expected to appear in the wake of the schooner.

The wind had freshened, and the _Domain_ was making a good eight knots.
Not a cloud was to be seen in the star-spangled sky, nor a sail on the
sea line, nor a sign now of the island.

The atoll island does not show up well at night. It is less an island
than a kink in the sea over which a vessel may trip just as a man trips
over a kink in a carpet, and, looking back now as Cardon was looking,
nothing could be seen of the shore they had left.

Till suddenly Cardon drew in his breath, clutched the after rail, and
stood motionless and gazing at a pale orange-colored glow marking the
sky on the sea line they were leaving.

Even as he watched the glow deepened in color to an angry red.

A great fire was in progress over there. One might have fancied that
the whole of Pearl Island had caught alight and was blazing like a
torch in the wind. But Cardon knew better. He knew that what he was
watching was the destruction of the _Southern Cross_.

When he had seen Schumer going down into the hold with the light he had
guessed what was forward. Schumer had fired the vessel, and then, to
make sure, he had gone into the fo'c'sle with Luckman to fire her in a
fresh place.

The fire had proclaimed itself now, and Schumer and his companion,
bottled up in the fo'c'sle, would by this be beyond praying for.

Cardon had said nothing to Floyd of his suspicions, and now as he
watched them verified he determined to keep the matter still to himself.

There was no use in troubling the mind of Floyd. As for his own mind,
he was not in the least troubled.

What Schumer had prepared for another he was receiving himself, and
Cardon was not the man to pity a traitor and a murderer or to quarrel
with the justice of fate.

But it was strange beyond imagination to watch that steady, silent,
distant glow, knowing what it meant.

He watched it increasing to a certain point and decrease to a certain
point. Of a sudden, with a heave and flicker, it went out, and the
stars burned clear where the glow had been.

The _Southern Cross_ had sunk at her anchorage, and Cardon, turning
away, left the deck and came down to the cabin where Floyd and the girl
were seated.




ENVOI

Some three weeks later the _Domain_ cast anchor in Sydney harbor, and
Cardon, after the port authorities and the health officer had been
on board, took a shore boat for the quay. Floyd and Isbel did not
accompany him. He was going to interview Hakluyt, and he judged that he
would do the business better if he did it alone.

He waved his hand to them as he rowed off, and when he reached the quay
he made straight for Hakluyt's office.

Hakluyt was in, but was engaged, and Cardon waited in an outer room
patiently enough for some twenty minutes. He was in no hurry, and when
at last he was shown into the room where the shipowner was seated at
his desk he showed no hurry to begin the business he had on hand.

He was studying Hakluyt.

"Well, sir," said Hakluyt, after the pause that followed Cardon's
announcement and while that person was comfortably taking his seat,
"and what can I do for you?"

"Nothing," said Cardon. "I have come to tell you that Luckman has
burned the _Southern Cross_, according to arrangement with you, and
that I have all the evidence in my pocket, that he tried to do away
with Mr. Floyd according to agreement, and that I have witnesses of
the plot. In other words, my dear man, that your game is up and that
it rests entirely with me whether I close my fist on you or let you go
free."

Hakluyt said nothing.

"All your pearls are gone," said Cardon, lighting a cigarette. "Floyd
has got them. They are worth a good many thousand. I have taken your
schooner, the _Domain_, and you have here and now to make out a paper
selling her to me for the sum of--shall we say five thousand?--not
one penny of which you will ever receive. I am going to take her to
'Frisco, and if you make one kick or give one squeal or try one dirty
trick I will put you in quod as sure as my name is Jack Cardon."

"This is blackmail," said Hakluyt, sweating and grinning at the same
time, and in all his life Cardon had never seen anything stranger than
that grin.

"This is blackmail!"

"Of course it is," replied the other, "but what I want to point out to
you is that there is no resistance. You are absolutely tied up. I have
Luckman and Schumer in the hollow, of my hand, a whole island full of
Kanaka witnesses, _and_ the sunken schooner; also Floyd and a native
girl. Well, what do you say?"

"Where is Schumer?" cried Hakluyt, who seemed now like a person dazed
by a blow.

"He's with Luckman, and I can only say this--he can be produced when
wanted." Then, suddenly bursting out: "He is where you sent him. Dead
in the fo'c'sle of the ship that he sank. He, and Luckman along with
him. Blackmail! Do you think if I were working this thing for my own
hand I would stoop to blackmail _you_? No, sir. I'm working this for
Floyd, who is a soft-shell Englishman, as good as they make them, but a
child against ruffians of your cut. I'm squeezing you for him, and if
you don't like my loving embrace say so and I'll call in the law to do
the business. Now I give you one minute to decide. Do you stick out or
do you give in?"

"I give in," said Hakluyt.




      *      *      *      *      *      *




Transcriber's note:

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Incorrect page numbers in the Table of Contents have been corrected.





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