When they had washed up and put the plates in their rack, Jude commandeered Ratcliffe to help with the dinghy. Satan, having given his orders, had retired into himself and the business of patching an old sail. He was seated at the work under the awning, and he seemed scarcely to notice the others as they got the boat away.

“Satan’s got something up his sleeve,” said Jude as they pulled for the beach. “I reckon he’s laying low to get the better of Cark.”

“Well, if you ask me,” said Ratcliffe, “I think he has got the better of him in some way or another. I don’t know how, and I don’t want to. I’d sooner wait and see. It’s as interesting as a game of chess.”

“What’s that?”

“Chess—oh, it’s a game. I’ll show you some day. Don’t you ever play games, Jude?”

“You bet! Why, I won five dollars day before we put out buckin’ against the red at Chinese Charlie’s—y’know Havana? Well, it’s on the Calle sin Pedro. They play faro, but mostly r’lette.” “Oh, I didn’t mean that sort of games.”

“Which sort did you mean?” asked Jude, as the nose of the boat beached on the sand and they scrambled out. “Did you mean whisky drinkin’ and cuttin’ and carryin’ on?”

“Oh, Lord, no! I meant games, just ordinary games.”

Jude, the boat well beached, sat down on the blazing sands. It was two hours past noon, and the heat of the day had lifted under the freshening wind from the east, the tide was on the turn, and the far-off lamentations of the gulls around the southern reef-spurs came mixed with the fall of the waves,—waves scarcely a foot high, crystal clear, less waves than giant ripples.

Beyond the Sarah Tyler and her reflection on the water lay the violet-colored sea, infinity, and the blue of sky, broken only by a gull, spar white in the dazzle.

Ratcliffe sat down beside his companion. Jude, like any old salt, had her moments of dead laziness. Active as a kitten as a rule, she would suddenly knock off, when the fancy took her, “let go all holts,” to use Satan’s expression, and laze. You couldn’t kick her out of it, Satan said.

She had brought an old pair of boots for going through the bay cedar bushes. It wasn’t good to walk among the bushes unshod: there were tarantulas there, and scorpions, to say nothing of stump cacti. The boots were lying beside her on the sand, to be put on only at the last moment.

“What you mean by ordinary games?” asked Jude suddenly, finishing the inspection of a new variety of soft-shell crab she had just caught and flinging it into the sea.

“Oh, the games people play,” said Ratcliffe, who had almost forgotten what they had been talking about. He tried to explain, and found it singularly hard, especially when cross-examined.

Jude did not seem able to understand grown men and women spending half a day “knockin’ a ball about.”

“I used to play ma’bles with Dutch Mike’s kids when we were at Pensacola,” said she. “Mike ran a whisky joint, and the kids were pretty ornery. When we’d done playin’ marbles they’d have a cussin’ bee.”

“What on earth’s that?”

“Well, you’ve heard of a spellin’ bee—you get a prize for spellin’ the best. Well, a cussin’ bee you start cussin’ each other, and the one that cusses hardest gets the prize. Pap never knew till one day he let into me with a strap for somethin’ or ’nother and I let fly at him. Then he found it was Mike’s children who’d been learnin’ me, and he had a dust-up with Mike on the wharf, and left him limpin’ for the rest of his natural. Did you cuss when you was young?”

“No,” said Ratcliffe. “I learned that later.”

“’R you any good at it?”

“Upon my word, I don’t know.”

“Have a try,” said Jude, losing her languor. “Clench your fists to it and have a go at me, and then I’ll have a go at you—there’s no one listenin’. Pretend you’re the skipper and I’m a hand that’s been haulin’ on the wrong rope.” “No,” said Ratcliffe. “I’m no use at it, and it’s not a nice game, anyway. I’d sooner play at something else.”

Jude sniffed. She evidently felt snubbed. “I’m not a baby to be playing games,” said she. “You can go and play by yourself if you want to.”

She collapsed on her back with her knees up and her old hat covering her face; then from under the hat:

“You’ll hear all the swearin’ you want to in a minute from the old hooker.”

“You mean Satan?”

“Yep, the minute he turns his eye ashore and sees us lazin’ here instead of workin’.”

“Then, come on.”

“Not me,” said Jude, “not till Satan begins. I’m too comfortable. I been working hard all the morning while you two was aboard the Juan clackin’ with Sellers and havin’ drinks, I bet. I’m going to rest myself—what did you have?”

“Ginger beer and a cigar.”

“Did you take notice of Cark’s face?”

“Rather!”

“They say he hasn’t any one side to his face where the patch is. I’d like to see him with the patch off, wouldn’t you?”

“Lord, no! I saw quite enough of him with it on. Come, get up, and let’s get to work.”

“I’m not goin’ to work no more,” mumbled Jude drowsily. “I’m dead sick of fetchin’ and carryin’. Let Satan go and fetch and carry for himself. I’m going to stick here.” “On the island?”

“Yep.”

“And give up Satan and the Sarah?”

“Yep.”

“But what will you do for a living?”

“Start a la’ndry.”

“But there’s no one here to give you any washing to do.”

“Then I’ll have all the easier time.”

“That’s true. It’s a bright idea, and I’ll stay with you and carry the laundry basket.”

“No, you won’t! I’ll stick here alone.”

Suddenly, across the water from the Sarah and shattering this fantasy, came a voice. It was Satan’s voice, distant and borne on the breeze. Ratcliffe thought he could make out the words “lazy dog.”

He got up. Jude with the old panama over her face had stiffened out as if dead. He tried to turn her over with his foot. Then he felt half frightened. Had the sun got to her head, and was all that nonsense talk delirium?

He knelt down beside her and shook her.

“Jude, what’s the matter with you?”

No reply.

He took the panama from the face. The eyes were closed and the features were in repose.

Now, really alarmed, he jumped up, ran down to the boat, seized the baling tin, and filled it with sea water. He had never seen a case of sunstroke, but he had heard cold water on the head was a remedy. As he turned back with the tin the corpse was sitting up putting on its boots.

“What’re you doing with that baling tin?” said Jude.

“I’ll jolly soon show you!” said he, making toward her. “Shamming dead!”

But before he could reach her she was gone among the bushes, one boot on, the other off. Then, flinging the baling tin away, he joined her, helped her on with the boot, and they started. Jude, as if to make up, put her hand into his in a trusting and loving manner. She swung his hand as they walked. Then, near their destination, she flung it away and made off, hunting like a dog among the bushes till she found what she was in search of,—a long, knotted rope.

“What’s that for?” asked he.

“You wait and see,” replied Jude. “Here’s the cache. Mind where you’re walkin’ or you’ll be into it.”

The cache was well hidden among the bay cedars. The opening, eight feet long by six broad, was covered over with short poles spread with cut branches gone withered with the sun. When they had got the covering off, Jude tied one end of the rope to a tree close by and dropped the other end into the cache. She swung herself down by it, and Ratcliffe followed.

From the floor of this place a step, two feet high, gave entrance to the cave.

“You see,” said Jude. “It may rain till it’s black, but it never floods the cave. The water drains off before it can rise the height of the step.” There were a candle and some matches inside the cave entrance. She lit the candle and led the way.

Ratcliffe was astounded, less by the size of the place, than the stacks of goods,—canned peaches, condensed milk, corned beef, tomatoes, ox tongues, Heinz’s pickles, Nabisco wafers. The old brig, making for some gulf port, must have been a floating Italian warehouse as far as cargo was concerned.

“I don’t wonder at Satan not wanting Sellers and Carquinez to spot all this,” said he. “Why, there must be five hundred pounds’ worth of stuff here. Aren’t you afraid that nigger who skipped from you at Pine Island may split?”

“Sakes, no! He was too much afeared of Satan. Satan was always threatening to skin him. Besides, he doesn’t know. We told him this place was Turtle Island, and that’s a hundred and fifty miles to s’uth’ard. You trust Satan to keep a thing dark. Here, catch hold of the candle while I collect.”

There were two sacks folded up on the floor. She started collecting things, and when the sacks were half-filled Jude, clambering out of the pit, hauled them up by the rope.

“Anything more?” asked he, from below.

“I reckon that will be enough,” said Jude, looking down at him. “It’ll take us all our time to carry them to the boat, and if Satan ain’t satisfied he can come and fetch some more himself.”

“Then drop the rope; I want to get out.” Jude, kneeling at the cache edge, lowered the rope gingerly. He reached up, and was just about to seize the loose end when it eluded him.

“Why don’t you catch hold?” asked Jude.

“I can’t. How could I when you pulled it up again. Go on, drop it and don’t play the fool.”

“Who’s playin’ the fool?”

“You are.”

The rope, instead of descending again, was hauled right out of the cache. Then a face appeared, looking down and framed against the sky. He had forgotten the snub he had given her on the beach, but she hadn’t.

“D’y’r’member what you said down there on the beach?” asked Jude.

“No, what about?”

“Cussin’.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Said I wanted you to play games that wasn’t nice.”

“I never said any such thing.”

“Didn’t yer? Well, whether you did or you didn’t, you’ve got to swear before I let you out.”

“Well, then I’ll stay in. Go on, Jude, don’t be silly. It’s cold down here.”

The rope came down, and he was just seizing the end when it was whipped out of his hand.

“Damn!” said Ratcliffe wholeheartedly.

“Now you’re talkin’,” said Jude.

Like a boy fishing for polliwogs, she lowered the rope again and snatched it up suddenly, bringing with it another oath. But the third time he was too quick for her. Then as he came swarming up with skinned knuckles and rage in his heart, she bolted. He chased her, dodging here and there among the bushes, then he chased her round a tree, caught her, and, in his anger and irritation somehow, kissed her.

The perfectly amazing smack on the face that followed was revelation; it also knocked him off his balance so that he sat down as though cut off at the knees.