Cleigh was not only a big and powerful man--he was also courageous, but

the absence of Dodge and the presence of Cunningham offered such sinister

omen that temporarily he was bereft of his natural wit and initiative.

"Where's Dodge?" he asked, stupidly.

"Dodge is resting quietly," answered Cunningham, gravely. "He'll be on his

feet in a day or two."

That seemed to wake up Cleigh a bit. He drew his automatic.

"Face to the wall, or I'll send a bullet into you!"

Cunningham shook his head.

"Did you examine the clip this morning? When you carry weapons like that

for protection never put it in your pocket without a look-see. Dodge

wouldn't have made your mistake. Shoot! Try it on the floor, or up through

the lights--or at me if you'd like that better. The clip is empty."

Mechanically Cleigh took aim and bore against the trigger. There was no

explosion. A depressing sense of unreality rolled over the Wanderer's

owner.

"So you went into town for her luggage? Did you find the beads?"

Cleigh made a negative sign. It was less an answer to Cunningham than an

acknowledgment that he could not understand why the bullet clip should be

empty.

"It was an easy risk," explained Cunningham. "You carried the gun, but I

doubt you ever looked it over. Having loaded it once upon a time, you

believed that was sufficient, eh? Know what I think? The girl has hidden

the beads in her hair. Did you search her?"

Again Cleigh shook his head, as much over the situation as over the

question.

"What, you ran all this risk and hadn't the nerve to search her? Well,

that's rich! Unless you've read her from my book. She would probably have

scratched out your eyes. There's an Amazon locked up in that graceful

body. I'd like to see her head against a bit of clear blue sky--a touch of

Henner blues and reds. What a whale of a joke! Abduct a young woman, risk

prison, and then afraid to lay hands on her! You poor old piker!"

Cunningham laughed.

"Cunningham----"

"All right, I'll be merciful. To make a long story short, it means that

for the present I am in command of this yacht. I warned you. Will you be

sensible, or shall I have to lock you up like your two-gun man from

Texas?"

"Piracy!" cried Cleigh, coming out of his maze.

"Maritime law calls it that, but it isn't really. No pannikins of rum, no

fifteen men on a dead man's chest. Parlour stuff, you might call it. The

whole affair--the parlour side of it--depends upon whether you purpose to

act philosophically under stress or kick up a hullabaloo. In the latter

event you may reasonably expect some rough stuff. Truth is, I'm only

borrowing the yacht as far as latitude ten degrees and longitude one

hundred and ten degrees, off Catwick Island. You carry a boson's whistle

at the end of your watch chain. Blow it!" was the challenge.




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