“I shall not stick at much if this show’s spoiled.  Why, the money was as good as in our pockets, if he hadn’t cut up awkward.”

“Don’t throw up the sponge till some one else does it for you.  Look here, I know this man Kettle a lot better than you do.  He wants the pay very badly.  And when it comes to sticking up the cable station, you’ll see him do the work of any ten like us.  I tell you, he’s a regular demon when it comes to a scuffle.”

It was in this attitude, then, that the three principal members of the little steamer’s complement voyaged down over those warm tropical seas which lay between Lagos and the isle of their hopes and fears.  Two of them kept together, and perfected the detail of their plans for use in every contingency; but the other kept himself icily apart, and for an occupation, when the business of the ship did not require his eye, wrapped himself up in the labor of literary production.  He even refused to partake of meals at the same table with his employers.

The island first appeared to them as a huddle of mountains sprouting out of the sea, which grew green as they came more near, and which finally showed great masses of foliage growing to the crown of the splintered heights, with a surf frilling the bays and capes at their foot.  There was a town in the hug of one of these bays, and toward it the little steamer rolled as though she had been an ordinary legitimate trader.  She brought up to an anchor in the jaws of the bay, half-way between the lighthouse and the rectangular white building on the further beach, and after due delay, a negro doctor, pulled up by a surf-boat full of other negroes, came off and gave her pratique.

The rectangular white building, standing in the sea breeze by itself away from the town beyond, was the cable station, but for the present they faced it with their backs.  Kettle had seen it before; the other two acted as though it were the last thing to trouble their minds.  There was no going ashore for any of them yet; indeed, the less they advertised their personal identity, the more chance there was of getting off untraced afterward.

Night fell with such suddenness that one could almost have imagined the sun was permanently extinguished.  Round the rim of the bay lights began to kindle, and presently (when the wind came off the land) strains of music floated out to them.

“Some saint’s day,” Sheriff commented.

“St. Agatha’s,” said Kettle with a sigh.

“Hello, Kettle.  I thought you were a straight-laced chapel goer.  What have you to do with saints and their days?”

“I was told that one once, sir, and I can’t help remembering it.  You see the date is February 5th, and that’s my eldest youngster’s birthday.”

Sheriff swore.  “I wish you’d drop that sort of sentimental bosh, Skipper; especially now.  I want to get this business over first, and then, when I go back with plenty in my pocket, I can begin to think of family pleasures and cares again.  Come now, have you thought out what we can do with the steamer after we’ve finished our job here?”