"Well, there's nothing for me to do but take your word as you give it."
"That's the way to talk. Now, Flint, this bay or lagoon----"
The voice dropped into a low, indistinguishable murmur. Dennison realized
that the moment had come to depart; the edge of the encounter was in
Cunningham's favour and to remain would only serve to sharpen this edge.
So he went outside, slamming the door behind him.
The word of a rogue! There was now nothing to do but turn in. He believed
he had a glimmer. Somewhere off the Catwick Cunningham and his crew were
to be picked up. He would not be going to the Catwick himself, not
knowing whether it was jungle or bald rock. But if a ship was to pick him
up, why hadn't she made Shanghai and picked him up there? Why commit
piracy--unless he was a colossal liar, which Dennison was ready enough to
believe. The word of a rogue!
Some private war? Was Cunningham paying off an old grudge? But was any
grudge worth this risk? The old boy wasn't to be scared; Cunningham ought
to have known that. If Cleigh came through with a whole skin he'd hunt the
beggar down if it carried him to the North Pole. Cunningham ought to have
known that, too. A planted crew, piracy--and he, Dennison Cleigh, was
eventually to chuckle over it! He had his doubts. And where did the glass
beads come in? Or had Cunningham spoken the truth--a lure? A big game
somewhere in the offing. And the rogue was right! The world, dizzily
stewing in a caldron of monumental mistakes, would give scant attention to
an off-side play such as this promised to be. Not a handhold anywhere to
the puzzle. The old boy might have the key, but Dennison Cleigh could not
go to him for the solution.
His own father! Just as he had become used to the idea that the separation
was final, absolute, to be thrown together in this fantastic manner! The
father's arm under his neck and the cup at his lips had shaken him
profoundly. But Cleigh would not have denied a dog drink had the dog
exhibited signs of thirst. So nothing could be drawn from that.
* * * * *
Morning. Jane opened her eyes, only to shut them quickly. The white
brilliancy of the cabin hurt. Across the ceiling ran a constant flicker of
silver--reflected sunshine on the water. Southward--they were heading
southward. She jumped out of bed and stepped over to the port. Flashing
yellow water, a blue sky, and far off the oddly ribbed sails of a Chinese
junk labouring heavily in the big sea that was still running. Glorious!