CANDON—deserted by the Chinks just as he had deserted his companions on the beach.

“It’s him—the scoundrel,” cried Hank.

Candon, as startled as themselves, wild-eyed and just roused from profound sleep, standing now on deck staring at Hank, took the insult right in his teeth.

He drew back a bit, glanced over, saw the Heart and turned to George.

“What’s this?” said Candon. “Where the hell have you come from?”

“Where you left us stranded on that beach,” replied George. “Where you left us when you beat it with the ship and the boodle.”

Candon’s face blazed up for a second. Then he got a clutch on himself and seemed to bottle his pride and his anger. He folded his arms and stared at the deck planking without speaking. He rocked slightly as he stood, as though unsure of his balance. He seemed to have no sense of shame. Caught and confronted with his deed, he did not seem even to be searching for excuses. There was a frown on his brow and his lips were compressed.

Suddenly he spoke.

“Well,” said Candon, “you’ve given me a name, what more have you to say?”

“Nothing,” said George.

Candon turned, spat viciously over the rail and laughed, an odious sneering laugh that raised the bristles on Hank.

“It’s easy to laugh,” said Hank, “but it’s no laughing matter to us. We’ve lost the Wear Jack, we’ve lost the boodle, we’ve lost our time, and we’ve been played a damn dirty trick, about as dirty as the trick the Chinks seem to have played on you.”

Candon was not laughing now. He had turned to the starboard rail and was standing looking at the Heart. Tommie on the deck was clearly visible. She was looking at the Wear Jack; then she turned away and went below, as though to escape from the sight of him.

Candon gripped the rail tighter and heaved a deep breath. He turned to the others.

“So I’ve played you a dirty trick,” said Candon. “Well, if I hadn’t you’d have suspected me all the same, you’d never have said to yourselves maybe he didn’t, let’s ask him——”

“Ask him,” said Hank. “What’s the use, but I ask you now—Did you take that boat and go off to the Wear Jack for those automatics, leaving us there on that beach without pistols or means of fighting if the Mexicans came?”

“I did,” said Candon, a curious light in his blue eyes.

“Did you sail off and leave us there?”

“I did.”

“Well then, there’s no use talking.”

“Not a bit,” said George.

“You finished?” asked Candon.

“Yep.”

“Well then, that’s Pat McGinnis’ boat, he’s been down to the bay, must have been or you wouldn’t have collared it. What’ve you done with him?”

“That’s nothing to you,” said Hank.

“A minute,” said George. “We’ve left him and his men there and we collared his boat, but we played the game he forced on us, and we played it straight.”

“So you say,” said Candon. “How’m I to know?”

“You suspect us!” fired Hank.

“And why not? You suspected me, the whole three of you jumped on me like this directly you came on board, never asked a question, not you, because you weren’t true friends, hadn’t the makin’s of friendship in you, never asked for reasons.”

Hank flushed. “Good Lord!” said he, “you mean to say you had a reason for leaving us like that?”

“No, I hadn’t,” replied the other, “but that’s nothing. It’s nothing if I’m the biggest blackguard on earth, as I intend to be. What’s the good of being honest when you’re written down a rogue out of hand the first traverse that seems suspicious—even if you are a rogue. Why, God bless my soul, them diamonds, you wouldn’t trust them on the beach with me, you must take and shove them aboard the Jack.”

“I never thought of you,” said Hank. “I was thinking of the Mexicans coming down on us.”

“Maybe,” said Candon. “So you say, but how’m I to know.” He spoke with extraordinary bitterness. To George the whole thing was beyond words, the evidence of a mentality bordering on the insane. Here was a man guilty of the betrayal of his companions, guilty of leaving them marooned on a hostile beach, yet not only unashamed but highly indignant that they should have suspected him and declared him guilty offhand. It was true there was something in what he said; they had taken his action as the action of a rogue almost from the first, but they could not have done otherwise.

He was determined to put this point right. “Look here,” he said, “we might have thought you put off for some reason other than making away with that boodle, if you hadn’t said you were going to leave us.”

“I said I was going to stick in Mexico,” replied Candon. “But there’s no use in talking any more. Question is, what to do now. I can’t stick here and I don’t want to go on the Heart, unless I berth forward and help to work the ship. You can put me ashore somewhere.”

“You’ll have to berth with Jake,” said Hank. “He’s the fellow that was on the quay that night we put off and gave the show away to McGinnis.”

“He’ll do,” said Candon, “I reckon he’s good enough for me.”

“Well, you’d better get your things then,” said George.

They went down into the cabin one after the other, Candon leading.

The first things that struck Hank’s eyes, were the automatic pistols lying on the tray shelf where he had seen them last.

Hank went to his bunk where he had hid the diamonds. The parcel was gone.

“I suppose the Chinks took the boodle as well as the boat,” said he.

“That’s so,” replied Candon.

“Seems to me you didn’t make much of a fight, seeing you had those pistols.”

“I didn’t make any fight at all.”

Hank sniffed. George said nothing. They were busy now collecting their property. The Chinks had touched nothing but the diamonds. Hadn’t time, most likely, to think of anything but escape from the wreck, and the chance of being found by some ship on the vessel they had helped Candon to run away with.

“What made you show them the diamonds?” asked Hank, as he stuffed Tommie’s possessions into a bag.

“I didn’t,” said Candon.

“Then who told them?”

“The man who brought them on board.”

“That was me. I said nothing.”

He remembered how Tommie had put the things on and how the two Chinks had seen her. They had rowed him off with the package and might have given the news to the others. However, it didn’t matter much and he was inclined for no more talk with B. C. He felt he had lowered himself already by speaking of the matter at all to the fellow.

Then they put the dunnage on deck and transshipped it in two journeys to the Heart. Tommie was on deck again when Candon came on board. She just nodded to him, and then turned to help getting the things down to the cabin. Candon’s lot went into the foc’sle. Then he, Jake and George set to on the windlass, getting the anchor chain in.

It was the queerest and weirdest business, for B. C. showed neither shame nor irritation nor anger. A tremendous placidity seemed to have fallen upon him, almost a mild cheerfulness. He worked away and spoke to no one, he might have been an absolute stranger, a new hand just signed on.

When the Heart was under way, Hank and George picked watches. Hank had first call and picked Jake. George said nothing. Candon had fallen to him automatically.

Then Candon went down into the foc’sle to arrange his things and see after his bunk and with Hank at the wheel, the schooner lay again on her old course, the far-off crying of the gulls round Santander rock following them like the voice of mockery.