“Did you play?”
“Against Tolly? Never. I’ve played bridge against him but that’s all. The only reason I agree to that is to avoid embarrassment when we’re on the boat.”
“But you know how to shoot crap.”
“I was a showgirl on Broadway for many years, Mr. Rice. That’s quite a good education in many things they don’t teach you in the public schools. I don’t need to touch a pair of dice to tell if they’re phonics—fourteen passes don’t come out in a row unless something is pulling the right figures down to the floor.”
“You took them out of the game?”
“Just that,” she declared firmly. “There were similar dice in a box near where they were shooting on the floor. I picked up the pair Fowler was using and said: ‘I’ll jinx them for you, Tolly!’—but the dice I threw back into the game were from the box on the floor. The phonies went into my bag where Tolly found them in the car on the way home.”
The Swampfire was beginning to roll. Stan stood up and went to the window of the lounge, watching the slow swing of tassels on the cords which held back the draperies. “We’re getting close to the inlet,” he remarked idly. “Suppose we go into the pilot room. I’d like to watch us go through the rough water.”
He opened a small door at the forward end of the lounge and stepped through. Lydia Staunton rose and followed him, closing the door behind her. “Keep clear of the wheel,” Stan warned her. “It turns as Dawson uses the other one aft.”
“I know.” She came close beside him at the port window, brushing against him as the boat heeled. He groped for the binnacle light and turned it on. Far ahead they could see the flash of the lighthouse warning them off of Fowey Rocks.
“Who owned those dice in the box?” Stan asked after a time.
“I don’t know. I thought they were Fowler’s.”
“But they could have belonged to the Bessingers.”
“They could have. They were using them when I came.” “You’ve explained this to Mr. Farraday?”
“What’s the use?” She asked rather hopelessly. “If he believes what Tolly said—no explanation on my part will change it. If he doesn’t—it would look like I’m terribly anxious to put myself in the clear at the expense of his son.”
“Eve likes you, doesn’t she?”
“She’s a dear. But she’s devoted to Tolliver. His scrapes keep her constantly upset. Mr. Farraday has a lot of faith in you, Mr. Rice. The truth coming from you—”
“I’ll tell him. Forget it for a day or two. I’m sure everything will come out all right!”
“I feel better about it. I must have a lot of faith in you, too.”
“I hope it’s justified,” Stan told her. “I need it right now.”
The intimacy of the tiny pilot room, closing out the rest of the world, drew them close together. She told him of her struggle to make a name in the theatre; the ending of her career with marriage to Staunton; and the dawning of her great love for Bruce Farraday.
At first she found him sympathetic and understanding, but as the flashing light on the Fowey Rocks grew larger, she sensed he was not listening.
“I’ve talked too much,” she said, a trifle sadly. “I’m sorry.”
“No!” The Swampfire rolled deeply, and dipped her slim prow. Lydia saw the shielded whiteness of the bow-light touch a wall of green water—felt the boat shiver as a wave broke with the hardness of pebbles on the mahogany deck, foaming off through the scuppers.
She grasped Stan’s arm for support, and pointed to the lighthouse. It was no longer ahead, but was visible only through the starboard window. “We’re off our course!” There was a catch of fear in her statement.
The door to the pilot room swung open, outlining the forms of Dawson and LeRoy against the lights of the lounge. The Captain’s blue automatic was in his hand.
“Are you fooling with this wheel?” The Commander demanded curtly. “We’re wallowing in the trough! Farraday’s handling this boat from the stern.”
The wheel spun dangerously as another wave keeled the boat until the port windows were looking at water. Stan was intent on the compass. “Help me grab that wheel, Dawson! Quick—as she starts up! Nobody’s handling this boat. We’re about to pile up on the Cape Florida shoals!”
Together, he and Dawson took the wheel, bracing themselves against the wrench as a rolling sea slapped at the rudder. The Swampfire climbed up and up, then slowly answered the helm as they spun the wheel to starboard. “O.K.,” said Dawson. “I can handle her now.”
“Come on, Vince!” Stan stooped, and was gone through the door into the lounge. Clinging to the guard rail along the cabin, they made their way to the stern and jumped down into the cockpit.
Bruce Farraday had slipped from the seat by the controls. He was lying half on and half off of the platform, swaying slowly head down with each roll of the boat. As they lifted him gently to the floor of the cockpit, Eve came up the hatchway from the cabin. Brown eyes wide with terror, she knelt by her father and touched his face.
“Daddy. Daddy.” Her voice was numb,
Stan lifted her to her feet. “We’ll have to get your father below to one of the staterooms, Eve, he told her gently. “We must hurry. He’s still alive. Heat some water quickly.”
“Is he sick?” She was still uncomprehending.
“No. Its rather worse than that.” LeRoy put an arm around her shoulders as he might have comforted his own child. “He’s been shot with a mushroom bullet.”
Chapter XXVI
Bruck Farraday stirred uneasily and groaned. His face was colorless as the pillow slip on the stateroom berth. Headed back to Miami at full speed, with the push of the ocean in her wake, the Swampfire was riding more steadily. Stan touched the bandages on Farraday’s shoulder, then crossed the stateroom and opened the door to admit Lydia Staunton.
“The
