The Pagan Madonna Part 21

Dennison wondered if there would be a slicker in his old locker. He opened the door. He found an oilskin and a yellow sou'wester on the hooks. He took them down and put them on and stole out carefully, a hand extended each side to minimize the roll. He navigated the pa.s.sage and came out into the salon.

Cleigh was still immersed in his book. He looked up quickly, but recognizing the intruder, dropped his gaze instantly. Dennison crossed the salon to the companionway and staggered up the steps. Had his father ever really been afraid of anything? He could not remember ever having seen the old boy in the grip of fear. What a devil of a world it was!

Dennison was an able seaman. He had been brought up on the sea--seven years on the first _Wanderer_ and five on the second. He had, in company with his father, ridden the seven seas. But he had no trade; he hadn't the money instinct; he would have to stumble upon fortune; he knew no way of making it. And this knowledge stirred his rancor anew--the father hadn't played fair with the son.

He gripped the deck-house rail to steady himself, for the wind and rain caught him head-on.

Then he worked his way slowly along to the bridge. Twice a comber broke on the quarter and dropped a ton of water, which sloshed about the deck, drenching his feet. He climbed the ladder, rather amused at the recurrence of an old thought--that climbing ship ladders in dirty weather was a good deal like climbing in nightmares: one weighed thousands of pounds and had feet of lead.

Presently he peered into the chart room, which was dark except for the small hooded bulbs over the navigating instruments. He could see the chin and jaws of the wheelman and the beard of old Captain Newton. From time to time a wheel spoke came into the light.

On the chart table lay a pocket lamp, facing sternward, the light pouring upon what looked to be a map; and over it were bent three faces, one of which was Cunningham's. A forefinger was tracing this map.

Dennison opened the door and stepped inside.

CHAPTER XII

"How are you making out, Newton?" he asked, calmly.

"Denny? Why, G.o.d bless me, boy, I'm glad to see you! How's your dad?"

"Reading."

"That would be like him. I don't suppose if h.e.l.l opened under his feet he'd do anything except look interested. And it 'pears to me's though h.e.l.l had opened up right now!"

A chuckle came from the chart table.

"What's your idea of h.e.l.l, Newton?" asked Cunningham.

"Anything you might have a hand in," was the return bolt.

"Why, you used to like me!"

"Yes, yes! But I didn't know you then. The barometer's dropping. If it was August I'd say we were nosing into a typhoon. I always hated this yellow muck they call a sea over here. Did you pick up that light?"

"Yes, sir," answered the wheelman. "I take it she's making south--Hong-Kong way. There's plenty of sea room. She'll be well down before we cross her wake."

Silence except for the rumble of the weather canvas standing up against the furious blasts of the wind. Dennison stepped over to the chart table.

"Cunningham, I would like to have a word with you."

"Go ahead. You can have as many as you like."

"At dinner you spoke of your word."

"So I did. What about it?"

"Do you keep it?"

"Whenever I humanly can. Well?"

"What's this Catwick Island?"

"Hanged if I know!"

"Are you going to maroon us there?"

"No. At that point the yacht will be turned back to your father, and he can cruise until the crack o' doom without further interference from yours truly."

"That's your word?"

"It is--and I will keep it. Anything else?"

"Yes. I will play the game as it lies, provided that Miss Norman is in nowise interfered with or annoyed."

"How is she taking it?"

"My reply first."

"Neither I nor the crew will bother her. She shall come and go free as the gull in the air. If at any time the men do not observe the utmost politeness toward her you will do me a favour to report to me. That's my word, and I promise to keep it, even if I have to kill a man or two. I wish to come through clean in the hands so far as your father, Miss Norman, and yourself are concerned. I'm risking my neck and my liberty, for this is piracy on the high seas. But every man is ent.i.tled to one good joke during his lifetime, and when we raise the Catwick I'll explain this joke in full. If you don't chuckle, then you haven't so much as a grain of humour in your make-up."

"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 gla.s.s 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!

She dressed hurriedly and warmly, bundling her hair under a velours hat and ramming a pin through both.

"Denny?" she called.

There was no answer. He was on deck, probably.

An odd scene awaited her in the main salon. Cleigh, senior, stood before the phonograph listening to Caruso. The roll of the yacht in nowise disturbed the mechanism of the instrument. There was no sudden sluing of the needle, due to an amateurish device which Cleigh himself had constructed. The son, stooping, was searching the t.i.tles of a row of new novels. The width of the salon stretched between the two.