Christobal Island lay two days’ steaming away. It was a tiny place set all alone in the wastes of the sea.

There was only one trading station there, and it was run by a German on behalf of a German firm. This person’s name was Sprengel, and, to use the words that Blood applied to him some years before the date of this story, he had everything of the Red Indian about him except the gentleman.

Sprengel was a Prussian, close-clipped, clever, hard, and persistent as the east wind that blows over East Prussia in the spring. He had managed to keep other traders away from Christobal Island. Trade was his god; he had one ideal only—money, and, with the Teutonic passion for alien slang, he declared that in Christobal he was the only pebble on the beach.

The place, though German, was free to all men, absolutely free, yet Sprengel kept it absolutely German. No one could compete with him. Other traders had tried, but their business had wilted; antagonistic influences had worked mysteriously against them.

Blood had brought a cargo of trade here once for a friend. The friend, Samson by name, had put his all into a little schooner and a cargo of all sorts of “notions”—canned salmon, gin, tobacco, prints, knives, et cetera. He had taken Blood along as skipper. Bad luck had followed them to several islands, and here at Christobal had finished them. Blood rightly had put down their failure to Sprengel, and the glorious idea of getting even with Sprengel now haunted him so that he could not sleep.

His one dread was that Sprengel, having made his pile, might have gone back to Bromberg to enjoy it.

They had finished the “gun” next day, and mounted it on the bow, with a tarpaulin over the breech as if to protect it from the weather, when the Captain, who had been superintending the operations, coming aft, discovered Harman emerging from the saloon companionway in a high state of excitement.

“I’ve found it,” said Harman. “I knew it was there. I guessed the swine couldn’t have finished the lot, so I set up a hunt for it. Come you down and see.”

The Captain followed him below, and there, on the saloon table, he saw standing three bottles of Pilsener.

“Where did you get those?” said he.

“Get them! I got them out of the locker in Wolff’s cabin; hid away they were behind some old newspapers. I guessed the pair of those chaps hadn’t finished all the lush, and I hunted and hunted—first in Shiner’s locker, then under the mattress in his lower bunk. I looked into Wolff’s locker twiced, and saw nothin’ but newspapers, and still I kep’ on. I reckon I must have smelled the stuff to make me so persistent. Anyhow, I lit on the idea that the stuff might be hid behind the newspapers, and I went again, and there they were.”

“Fetch some glasses,” said the Captain.

Harman darted off, and returned with two glasses and a corkscrew.

The Captain took the corkscrew, placed a bottle between his knees, and was on the point of inserting the screw into the cork, when he paused, stood up, and replaced the bottle and corkscrew on the table.

“What’s the matter now?” asked Harman.

“An idea has struck me,” replied the Captain.

“What’s your idea?”

“We mustn’t drink this stuff.”

“Not drink it!” cried the outraged Harman. “And what on earth do you want it for if we ain’t to drink it?”

“Bait,” replied the other.

“Bait?”

“To catch Sprengel with. This is Lion brew Pilsener, and it’s a hundred to one, if he’s still on the island, he hasn’t any of this stuff with him. There’s no German born could withstand the temptation. It beats sausages.”

“Well,” said Harman, flying out like a child, “if I’d known you was going to collar the stuff like that I’d have drunk it before I called you. It ain’t fair. Here am I with my tongue hangin’ down to my heels for a drink, and there’s the stuff and the glasses and all. I’m not given to complain, but it’s too much. I’m speakin’ my mind now. It’s too much!”

“Can’t you understand that with this stuff I may be able to get the blighter on board,” said the Captain, “and if I once get him on board and down to this saloon the whole of the rest of the thing will be easy. If we try to rush the place with him on shore there may be blood spilled. With him a prisoner here there won’t be any resistance.

“I’ll take him those three bottles as a present, and then invite him on board with the promise of a case of it—d’ye see?”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Harman. “I’ll split the difference with you. Take him two bottles as a present, and we’ll drink the other.”

The Captain considered on this a moment, and then, fearing mutiny as well as having a thirst, he gave in.

It was his first drink for a long time, and it was excellent beer; the only drawback was the quantity.

“What I can’t see,” said Harman, finishing his portion of the liquid, “is what in the nation you want treatin’ the perisher to two bottles of this stuff; two bottles is too little to take ashore with you as a present, and it’s one too many if you’re just going to offer him a drink after he’s caught.”

The Captain joined issue, and the argument went on till thirst joined with Harman, and the Captain gave in. The second bottle was opened.

And now a strange thing happened. No sooner had the contents of the second bottle vanished than the Captain himself prepared to finish the business.

It was the Irishman coming out.

“There’s no use in one bottle,” said he, “and, for the matter of that, I can get him aboard on the promise of beer. How’s he to know there is none?”

Harman actually protested—feebly enough, it is true—yet he protested, holding out his glass at the same time. There was a Scotch strain in Harman.

When they had finished, they filled the bottles with water and recorked them.

“They’re just as good like that,” said the Captain, “for Sprengel.”