“Was up the Baltic,” he explained. “Pit props. Got a full cargo on board. Got an offer such as a poor sailorman couldn’t afford to let slip to come to Danzig and wait here till two gents came aboard. That’s all I’m going to tell you.”
“That’s all I want to know,” answered Cartoner.
“But, dammy, it’s not all I want to know!” shouted Cable, suddenly, with a bang of his little, thick fist on the table. “I’ve been thinking since I lay here—been sleeping badly, and took the anchor watch meself—what I want to know is whether I’m to be treated gentlemanly!”
“In what way?” inquired Cartoner, gently. And the sound of his voice seemed to pacify the captain.
“Of course,” he admitted, “I’m not a gentleman, I know that; but in seafaring things I’ll be treated as such. Truth is, I’m afraid it’s something to do with this news from St. Petersburg. And I don’t take any bombmen on board my ship, and that’s flat.”
“I think I can assure you on that point,” said Cartoner. “Nobody who had to do with the assassination of the Czar is likely to be in Danzig. But I do not know whom you are to take on board here.”
“May be as you can guess,” suggested the captain.
“Yes, I think I can guess,” admitted Cartoner, with his slow smile.
“But you won’t tell me?”
“No. When do you expect them?”
“I’ll answer that and ask you another,” said Captain Cable, getting a yellow decanter from a locker beneath the table. “That’s port—ship-chandler’s port. I won’t say it’s got a bokay, mind.”
For Captain Cable’s hospitality was not showy or self-sufficient.
“I’ll answer that and ask you another. I expected them last night. They’ll likely come down with the tide, soon after midnight tonight. And now I’ll ask you, what brought you aboard this ship, here in Danzig River, Mr. Cartoner?”
“A letter from a Frenchman you know as well as I do—Paul Deulin. Like to read it?”
And Cartoner laid the letter before Captain Cable, who smiled contemptuously. He knew what was expected of a gentleman better than even to glance at it as it lay before him in its envelope.
“No, I wouldn’t,” he answered. He scratched his head reflectively, and looked beneath his bushy brows at Cartoner as if he expected the ship-chandler’s port to have an immediate effect of some sort.
“Got your luggage in the boat alongside?” he asked, at length.
“No. It’s at the station.”
“Then let me send a hand ashore for it. Got three Germans furard. You’ll come aboard and see this thing through, I hope.”
“Thank you,” answered Cartoner. He handed Captain Cable the ticket for his luggage.
“Mate’s receipt?” inquired the captain.
And Cartoner nodded. The captain pushed the decanter towards his guest as he rose to go and give the necessary orders.
“No stint of the wine,” he said, and went out on deck.
When he came back he laid the whole question aside, and devoted himself to the entertainment of his guest. They both slept in the afternoon. For the captain had been up all night, and fully expected to see no bed the following night.
“If they come down with the tide we’ll go to sea on the same ebb,” he said, as he lay down on his stateroom locker and composed himself to sleep.
He sent the hands below at ten o’clock, saying he would keep the anchor watch himself. He wanted no forecastle gossip, he said to Cartoner, and did not trouble to explain that he had kept the watch three nights in succession on that account. Cartoner and he walked the deck side by side, treading softly for the sake of the sleepers under deck. For the same reason, perhaps, they were silent.
Once only Captain Cable spoke in little more than a whisper.
“Hope he is pleased with himself,” he said, as he stood at the stern rail, looking up river, as it happened, towards Krakow. “For it is his doing, you and me waiting his orders here this cold night. They’re tricky—the French. He’s a tricky man.”
“Yes,” admitted Cartoner, who knew that the captain spoke of Deulin, “he is a tricky man.”
After this they walked backward and forward for an hour without speaking. Then Captain Cable suddenly raised his hand and pointed into the night.
“There’s a boat yonder,” he said, “coming down quiet, under the lee of the land.”
They stood listening, and presently heard the sound of oars used with great caution. A boat was crossing the river now and coming towards them. Captain Cable went forward and took a coil of rope. He clambered laboriously to the rail and stood there, watching the shadowy shape of the boat, which was now within hail. It was swinging round on the tide with perfect calculation and a most excellent skill.
“Stand by,” said Captain Cable, gruffly, and the coils of his rope uncurled against the sky, to fall in a straight line across the boat.
Cartoner could see a man catch the rope neatly and make it fast with two turns. In a moment the boat came softly nestling against the steamer as a kitten may nestle against its mother.
The man, who seemed to be the sole occupant, stood up, resting his hand on the rail of the Minnie. His head came up over the rail, and he peered into Cartoner’s face.
“You!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” answered Cartoner, watching his hands, for there was a sort of exultation in Kosmaroff’s voice, as if fate had offered him a chance which he never expected.
Cable came aft and stood beside Cartoner.
“I want to go to sea this tide,” he said. “Where is the other man?”
“The other man is Prince Martin Bukaty,” was the answer. “Help me to lift him on board.”
“Why can’t he come on board himself?”
“Because he is dead,” answered Kosmaroff, with a break in his
