“Oh, that’ll be all right,” he cried; “you can have it.”

If anything was needed to convince me of the man’s sinister intentions, this too ready acquiescence would have been enough.  I knew him too well.  If he had had the slightest intention of permitting me to go free, he would have bargained.

The Nigger called us to mess.  We ate in the after cabin.  The chest was locked and the men had as yet been unable to break into it.  Pulz professed some skill in locksmithing and promised to experiment later.  After mess we went on deck again.  The island had dropped down to the horizon and showed as a brilliant glow under a dark canopy.  I leaned over the rail looking at it.  Below me the extra dory bumped along.  The idea came to me that if I could escape that night, I could row back to Percy Darrow.  The two of us could make shift to live on fish and shellfish and mutton.  The plan rapidly defined itself in my brain.  From the remains of the Golden Horn we could construct some kind of a craft in which to run free to the summer trades.  Thus we might in time reach some one or another of the Sandwich Islands, whence a passing trader could take us back to civilisation.  There were many elements of uncertainty in the scheme, but it seemed to me less desperate than trusting to the caprices of these men, especially since they now had free access to the liquor stores.

While I leaned over the rail engrossed in these thoughts, one of the black thunder clouds that had been gathering and dissipating over the island during the entire afternoon suddenly glowed overhead with a strange white incandescence startlingly akin to Darrow’s so-called “devil fires.”  Strangely enough, this illumination, unlike the volcanic glows, appeared to be cast on the clouds from without rather than shot through them from within, as were the other volcanic emanations.  At the same instant I experienced a sharp interior revulsion of some sort, most briefly momentary, but of a character that shook me from head to toe.

I had no time to analyse these various impressions, however, for my attention was almost instantly distracted.  From the cabin came the sound of a sharp fall, then a man cried out, and on the heels of it Pulz darted from the cabin, screaming horribly.  We were all on deck, and as the little man rushed toward the stern Handy Solomon twisted him deftly from his feet.

“My God, mate, what is it?” he cried, as he pinned the sufferer to the deck.

But Pulz could not answer.  He shivered, stiffened, and lay rigid, his eyes rolled back.

“Fits,” remarked Thrackles impatiently.

The excitement died.  Rum was forced between the victim’s lips.  After a little he recovered, but could tell us nothing of his seizure.

After the dishes had been swept aside from supper, Handy Solomon announced a second attempt to open the chest.

“Pancho, here, says he’s been a mechanic,” said he.  “I right well know he’s been a housebreaker.  So he’s got the sabe for the job, and you can kiss the Book on that.”