"But hurry, Miss Norman. The sooner I have that written order on the
consulate the sooner you'll have your belongings."
"Very well."
Five minutes later she announced that the order was completed, and Cleigh
opened the door slightly.
"The key will be given you the moment we weigh anchor."
"I say," called the son, "you might drop into the Palace and get my truck,
too. I'm particular about my toothbrushes." A pause. "I'd like a drink,
too--if you've got the time."
Cleigh did not answer, but he presently entered Cabin Two, filled a glass
with water, raised his son's head to a proper angle, and gave him drink.
"Thanks. This business strikes me as the funniest thing I ever heard of!
You would have done that for a dog."
Cleigh replaced the water carafe in the rack above the wash bowl and went
out, locking the door. In the salon he called for Dodge: "I am going into town. I'll be back round five. Don't stir from this
cabin."
"Yes, sir."
"You remember that fellow who was here night before last?"
"The good-looking chap that limped?"
"Yes."
"And I'm to crease him if he pokes his noodle down the stairs?"
"Exactly! No talk, no palaver! If he starts talking he'll talk you out of
your boots. Shoot!"
"In the leg? All right."
His employer having gone, Dodge sat in a corner from which he could see
the companionway and all the passages. He lit a long black cigar, laid his
formidable revolver on a knee, and began his vigil. A queer job for an old
cow-punch, for a fact.
To guard an old carpet that didn't have "welcome" on it anywhere--he
couldn't get that, none whatever. But there was a hundred a week, the best
grub pile in the world, and the old man's Havanas as often as he pleased.
Pretty soft!
And he had learned a new trick--shooting target in a rolling sea. He had
wasted a hundred rounds before getting the hang of it. Maybe these sailors
hadn't gone pop-eyed when they saw him pumping lead into the bull's-eye
six times running? Tin cans and raw potatoes in the water, too. Something
to brag about if he ever got back home.
He broke the gun and inspected the cylinder. There wasn't as much grease
on the cartridges as he would have liked.
* * * * *
"Miss Norman?" called Dennison.
"What is it?"
"Are you comfortable?"