THE FIRST HAUL
IN spite of her premature departure, the _Alerte_ was well found for
her work. Everything that Trevorrick and Pengelly could provide had
been placed on board, or had been arranged for at the earliest
possible opportunity. Yet Trevorrick smiled grimly when he reflected
that here was a modern pirate vessel proceeding to sea absolutely
unarmed with the exception of a service revolver and fifty rounds of
ammunition.
Pengelly, whose acquaintance with Falmouth Harbour and the river Fal
was extensive, conned the ship from the bows, transmitting his
orders to the quartermaster at the above-water steering apparatus.
Trevorrick, in peaked cap, bridge coat and rubber boots, tramped up
and down the temporary structure amidships. He was feeling rather
anxious, not on account of his recently adopted profession, but as
to whether the _Alerte_ would clear St. Anthony Point without either
grounding or being challenged by the Falmouth Customs officials. He
was one of those devil-may-care fellows who never hesitate to take
risks and face the consequences provided they have had a run for
their money. Ignominious capture at this early stage of the
proceedings would be the limit of bitter disappointment.
Slowly the _Alerte_ smelt her way down the intricate channel of
Polkyll Creek. Once her rounded bilge scraped the mud, but without
losing way she dragged over the slippery obstruction. Ahead lay the
dark, tree-clad hills of the right bank of the Fal.
"Hard-a-starboard!" shouted Pengelly, supplementing these
instructions by ordering the port engine to "go astern."
Even then, under the opposing action of the twin propellers the
_Alerte_ described a fairly wide turning circle. It was only by a
hand's-breadth that she avoided running her nose against the
opposite bank.
"Easy ahead both!" bawled the navigating officer.
The dense wooded ground echoed and re-echoed to the explosions of
the supposedly muffled exhausts. If this noise continued, Trevorrick
realised that all attempt to disguise the means of propulsion of the
_Alerte_ was at an end. As far as he could judge, the distinctive
sounds would be audible from Green Bank to St. Mawes.
Gradually the river opened out. Mylor Creek bore broad on the
starboard beam. Now unchecked by the lofty and narrow banks the
noise of the exhausts sensibly diminished, while the rising breeze,
hitherto masked by the trees, served still further to stifle the
oral evidence of the presence of the mysterious craft.
Then, like a galaxy of stars, the lights of the shipping and the
town of Falmouth opened out. For the next three miles would be the
critical part of the run. At any moment the tricoloured lamp of one
of the Customs' launches might be seen bearing down upon the
outgoing "tramp."
"Lugo Buoy on the port bow, sir!"
Now the gauntlet was all but run. Ahead loomed the rugged outlines
of St. Anthony and Pendennis, with the narrow channel between them,
still further contracted by the dangerous Black Rock.
"Ahoy! What ship is that?" hailed a voice out of the darkness.
Unseen and unheard, a motor launch had swept alongside the pirate
vessel's port quarter.
"_Alerte_ of London!" shouted Trevorrick.
"Cargo?"
"Light."
"Where are you bound?"
"Truro for Plymouth."
"All right. Heave us a line. I'll see your papers."
"Ay, ay," replied Trevorrick.
His ready brain was working. If things came to the worst, the
Customs' launch could be stove in by the simple expedient of
dropping a pig of iron into her. He might even take the crew
prisoners; but, he reflected, there was no likelihood of obtaining a
ransom for _them_. They would merely be useless mouths to feed.
"Ease down!" bawled the imperious voice.
"Ay, ay," responded Trevorrick, but made no move towards putting the
order into execution.
"Stand-by!" he bawled, brandishing a coil of rope.
The bowman of the launch caught the flake of the coil and took a
turn. Directly the rope tautened, Trevorrick cut it. The launch
dropped astern, until under extra throttle she again ran alongside.
It was a gain of a couple of minutes. By this time the _Alerte_ was
lifting to the fairly heavy rollers coming in from the English
Channel. With her additional top-hamper she was rolling pretty
heavily.
But by this time the Customs' boatmen had thought better of it.
Boarding an outward-bound vessel was not such an imperative duty as
examining one "come foreign." It wasn't worth the risk of having
their boat stove-in and finding themselves in the ditch on a cold
November night. A breaking sea sweeping clean over the canopy
decided the question.
Without a word, the motor-launch's helm was put hard over. Listing
dangerously, she flung about and disappeared into the darkness.
Thoughtfully, Trevorrick put a stopper round a piece of pig-iron
lying in the scuppers.
St. Anthony Light blinked knowingly away on the _Alerte's_ port
quarter.
"Well?" inquired Pengelly, stamping aft. He had put Marchant on duty
in the eyes of the ship, since there was now plenty of sea-room.
"We'll submerge off Helford," decided Trevorrick. "Wind's off the
land. It'll give the crew a chance to exercise. Get the hands to
stand by with the mast-lowering tackles."
Twenty minutes later the _Alerte_, with masts and funnel lowered,
slowed down a couple of miles due east of Mawnan Chair. A cast of
the lead gave sufficient depth.
"Hands to diving stations!" roared Trevorrick, his words recalling
incidents of long-past days when under better auspices he had held
command of a submarine flying the white ensign.
Quickly the crew disappeared below. Giving a final glance round,
Trevorrick followed Pengelly through the hatchway, which closed
after them with a metallic clang.
The throb of the Diesel engines ceased. The silence was profound,
broken only by the top of the wavelets against the outer plating of
the hull.
The electric lights gleamed upon the grave faces of the crew. With
two exceptions they were new to submarine work. They had excuse to
feel jumpy, but the sight of their cool and composed skipper gave
them a certain amount of confidence.
A gurgling noise announced that the buoyancy tanks were being
flooded. Slowly the disc of the depth indicator began to move. Once
it started it never faltered until it stopped at eleven fathoms.
The _Alerte_ was resting on the bed of Falmouth Bay.
"All shipshape and Bristol fashion, my lads!" exclaimed Trevorrick,
turning away from the control station and drawing off his leather
gauntlets. "No anchor watch to keep. We're as snug as fleas in a
rug."
The men trooped for'ard for supper. Trevorrick and Pengelly retired
to the diminutive wardroom amidships, where a repast was already
spread upon the teak swing-table.
"To-morrow," remarked Trevorrick, in the course of the meal,
"To-morrow, Tom Trevorrick ceases to exist as such. Henceforward I
am Captain Cain--'every man's hand against mine,' you know."
"Then you're letting the hands know early?"
Trevorrick nodded.
"And what am I, then?" continued Pengelly. "Captain what?"
Trevorrick laid down his knife and fork and looked fixedly at his
companion.
"Captain Nothing," he replied. "There won't be two captains aboard
this hooker. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it."
"But we're on equal terms?"
"From a financial point of view, yes," agreed Trevorrick. "But mark
you, I'm in sole command. There's no getting away from that: not an
earthly. You, Pengelly, are second in command; to be consulted as
and when I think fit. You are to carry out my orders
unquestioningly. Have you got that? Good; then don't forget it."
Then, having delivered his ultimatum, Trevorrick's mood changed. He
went on with his interrupted repast, chatting on topics that had no
bearing upon the subject of the great enterprise.
Presently he inquired casually:
"Has Chamfer recovered his senses yet?"
Pengelly shook his head.
"I haven't given him a thought," he replied.
The captain stretched out his hand and pressed a push. For'ard a
bell tinkled shrilly. One of the crew, tapping upon the door,
entered.
"See if Jones is stirring," ordered Trevorrick, glancing at the
clock on the bulkhead, which showed that it was twenty minutes past
one in the morning. "If he is, bring him along."
In less than a couple of minutes the man returned, followed by the
luckless Jasper Chamfer. The Admiralty inspector looked and probably
felt an utter wreck. The after-effects of the anaesthetic, coupled
with the confined atmosphere of his cell, would have capsized many a
man of tougher fibre.
"Stand there," ordered Trevorrick curtly, at the same time motioning
to the seaman to make himself scarce. "Unaccustomed surroundings,
eh?"
"Where am I?" inquired Chamfer tremulously.
"As near as I can say, you're between ten and eleven fathoms beneath
the surface of Falmouth Bay," announced his captor grimly. "But I
haven't brought you here to ask me questions. I want information
from you and--I'm--going--to--get--it."
He paused to let his words sink in.
"You poked your nose into our affairs. I'm going to probe into
yours," continued Trevorrick.
"It was my duty."
"That's your affair. Now, tell me. I understand you're worth about
thirty thousand pounds. Is that so? Well, I won't inquire, I'll
assume. They say 'silence means consent.' That thirty thousand is an
encumbrance. Already you're self-supporting, drawing a fat salary
and doing precious little to earn it--doing it mightily badly, I
might add. You'll have to disgorge: some of it, at least. How is
that sum invested?"
Chamfer shook his head.
"I won't tell you," he replied, with a faint show of spirit, which
his quivering form belied.
"Disobliging blighter," commented the captain. "Very well, then.
There's nothing more to be said at present. You'll go back to your
cell. Tomorrow you will look upon the sun for the last time."
Without giving the Admiralty official another look, Trevorrick
touched the bell.
"Remove Jones," he ordered.
"By Jove, man!" ejaculated Pengelly, after Chamfer had been taken
away; "he would have told. I could see it on his face."
"I didn't look," was the unconcerned response. "To-morrow he'll be
as docile as a dove. And while I'm about it," he added, "in future
you will drop that tone of familiarity you've been in the habit of
using. Remember, as your captain I am entitled to the word 'sir.'...
You'd better turn in now, Pengelly."
Pengelly got up and went out without a word. The door had hardly
closed when the captain recalled him.
"Good-night, Pengelly."
"Good-night, sir!"
"Nothing like putting it across the prevaricating blighter,"
soliloquised Trevorrick. "Without proper respect all discipline goes
by the board."
Pengelly, in his cabin, was indulging in different views.
"If the swine thinks he's going to ride the high horse with me, he's
mistaken," he muttered. "I'll do him properly when I get the
chance."
The night passed uneventfully. At four bells the hands were roused
and breakfast served out, every one being given a liberal tot of
rum. The meal over and the "traps" cleared away and the mess-deck
being cleaned up (Trevorrick was "dead nuts" on routine), the men
were mustered in the fore-compartment that previously served as the
bow torpedo-room and air-flask chamber. To them came Trevorrick,
rigged out in pea-jacket, gold braided cap, muffler, flannel
trousers, and sea-boots. At his right hip was a holster, the flap of
which was unfastened to display the butt of a revolver.
"Men!" he began. "Circumstances are against us; luck isn't! That
swine of an Admiralty inspector has to be held responsible. He has
'blown the gaff.' Taking advantage of the confidence I placed in
him, he has betrayed the secret of the _Posidon's_ cargo to the
Admiralty. I understand a dockyard lighter with a diving party is
already over the position of the ingots. That being so, our original
plans are a wash-out. But little difficulties of that description,
annoying though they be, don't daunt me. Since Jones has caused the
trouble, Jones must pay.
"I'm going to take strong measures. I haven't the faintest doubt
that they will attain the desired end. To be brief, I intend to
squeeze him to the extent of £20,000. Of that sum, Mr. Pengelly and
myself each take £5,000. The remainder--£10,000--will be divided
between the hands in proportion to the wages you were receiving
while in the employ of Trevorrick, Pengelly, and Co. I have not yet
worked out each man's share, but on a rough calculation it varies
between £300 and £400 apiece, which is considerably in excess of the
sum originally offered in connection with the proposed, but now
abandoned, salvage operations. Later on, I have other attractive
propositions to bring forward, but for the present I'll say no
more."
It might be owing to the strong spirit, it might be the vision of
sudden and easily gotten wealth. Be that as it may, the captain's
speech roused the men to boisterous enthusiasm.
Trevorrick left them to discuss matters.
"I said they'd eat out of my hand, Pengelly," he remarked. "One word
from me and they'd cut the throats of the first crew of foreigners
we came across. Not that that is my intention," he added.
As dawn was breaking, the _Alerte_ was brought to the surface. Masts
and funnel were set up, the motors started ahead at a modest five
knots, a course was shaped to the S.S.E. which would take her well
clear of the Cornish coast.
When twenty miles out in the Channel, Trevorrick swept the horizon
with his binoculars. Save for a large oil tanker well away beyond
the Lizard, there was nothing in sight--which was precisely what
Trevorrick had wanted.
"Clear lower deck!" was the order.
Up tumbled the hands. Under the captain's directions a plank was
brought out and placed with his heel resting on the deck amidships,
and its outer end projecting five feet beyond the low bulwarks.
"Fall in on your respective sides--port and starboard watch,"
shouted Trevorrick. "When Jones comes on deck howl at him. Put the
wind up him for all you're worth. I'm not going to carry my threat
into execution. It won't be necessary, and he's not worth it....
Bring up the prisoner."
A combined yell like the howling of a pack of wolves greeted the
trembling Jasper Chamfer. With quivering steps he was led to the
foot of the slightly inclined plank. Here his eyes were bandaged and
his arms lashed behind his back.
Trevorrick held up his hand for silence.
The uproar ceased immediately.
"Now," began the captain in clear, measured tones, addressing the
captive. "I will state our terms whereby you may gain your life and,
under certain restrictions, your liberty. If within thirty seconds
from the termination of my proposal you still refuse a perfectly
reasonable demand--there's the plank. You will sign an order on your
bankers, authorising them to pay the person named in your letter of
advice the sum of £20,000. Having done that, you will be placed on
board a vessel bound foreign, you giving the undertaking that you
will not reveal your identity nor attempt to cancel your bond within
the period of four months. Remember that, if you do, your life will
not be worth a red cent. We belong to a powerful and widely
scattered society, having agents in the principal ports all over the
world. Conform to the conditions and you will be free to return at
the expiration of the time limit mentioned. Refuse and your fate
rests with you."
In dead silence, Trevorrick pulled out his watch. The blindfolded
man could hear the deliberate ticking of the timepiece.
"Ten seconds," announced Trevorrick.... "Twenty seconds, ten more to
go. Stand by, you men...."
"I agree!" almost shrieked the tortured man, and with a groan he
pitched forward. Trevorrick caught him as he fell.
"The twenty thousand's ours, lads!" he announced. "Pipe down. Take
him below."
The assembled crew broke ranks and were about to disperse, when
Trevorrick swung round on his heel.
"Stand fast!" he ordered.
Months, nay years, cannot destroy the deeply-rooted sense of
discipline of the ex-naval man. Smartly the ununiformed crew pulled
themselves together and waited immovable, while two of their number
"struck" the unconscious Chamfer down below, lowering him through
what was originally the fore torpedo hatch.
"Men!" exclaimed Trevorrick. "We may just as well understand each
other. Already you have seen how I deal with those who thwart my
purpose, especially when that purpose is to the advantage of those
in my employ and under my command. You all know, only too well, what
it is to be up against Fate. So do I. Since the chance of earning an
honest living is denied us--honest according to the ideas of a
certain class of society that has never to study the question of
existence from our standpoint--there remains another alternative.
You know the saying: 'Heaven helps those who help themselves.' I
mean to act upon that, on the firm belief that Providence will see
us through. We've made an excellent start. You will naturally feel
inclined to ask: How shall we help ourselves on future occasions?
Already we have broken the law and incurred severe penalties by
kidnapping a citizen of the realm and a government official to boot.
All of us, remember."
He paused in order to let his words sink in.
"May as well be 'ung for a sheep as a lamb, sir," exclaimed one of
the men.
Several of his companions uttered expressions of assent.
"That's the spirit," said Trevorrick. "Exactly what I expected.
Well, my lads, it's my intention to arm this old hooker. Already
arrangements have been completed to that end. Then we'll stop the
first likely Dago or Hun ship we fall in with and see what we can do
to ease their pockets. Mind you, I'm not going to run needless
risks. I have your interests as well as my own at stake. It's going
to be a short cruise but a busy one. When we pay off there will be
no doubt that each of you will have sufficient money to buy a
comfortable pub and live the rest of your lives in simple luxury and
ease. Think what you can do with, say, three thousand of the best to
play with--probably more. Now then: any questions?"
Questions came; slowly at first, then rapidly. Trevorrick dealt with
each at length, replying so suavely and convincingly, that his
listeners were metaphorically lifted off their feet. They were not
inquiries respecting the proposed methods by which they were to
acquire wealth, nor did the questioners seem to trouble themselves
over the possible consequences of their lawlessness. The subject
that weighed most heavily on their minds was: how were they to
obtain guarantees that their shares would actually reach them?
"Exactly the sort of question I should expect from an intelligent
body of men," replied Trevorrick. "Naturally you look ahead. Your
horizon isn't six inches from your eyes. But you can see perfectly
well that it would be impracticable to run ashore a cargo of booty
valued, say, at fifteen thousand and divide it up like a sirloin of
beef. We have to employ an agent--a middleman. One is already
engaged--a thoroughly trustworthy Penzance man--and you know the
word of a Penzance man is his bond. He will take off our loot and
dispose of it. The profits of each transaction will be immediately
apportioned. Each of you can either have his share posted to any
address he cares to give, or it can remain with the agent till
called for in person. In the case of cash and jewellery, we will, if
thought necessary, make the division on board."
"S'posin' some of us loses the number of our mess, sir?" asked a
burly ex-stoker, "wot 'appens?"
"You lose it, I suppose," replied Trevorrick. "We will all do sooner
or later. It will be all the same a hundred years hence."
Several of the hands laughed at their skipper's feeble joke.
"But I know what you mean," he continued. "In bygone days, pirates
used to regard the death of one of their number as a sort of
windfall. It enhanced the value of the survivors' shares. I have no
intention of following that precedent. Every member of the crew can
nominate a next-of-kin in the event of his losing his life--which I
am anxious to avoid."
"You mentioned pirates, sir," remarked the bo'sun. "I take it we're
to sail under the skull and crossbones?"
There was an ominous silence. The sinister significance of the term
had struck home.
"Now you come to mention it, Mr. Barnard, I really think we are,"
replied Trevorrick lightly. "But there's still time if there's any
white-livered blighter who wants to back out. Now, my lads!" he
continued in ringing tones, "all those who do not wish to carry on
on my terms--two paces step forward--March!"
Not a man moved as directed. Two or three shuffled and lowered their
eyes under the stern gaze of the self-declared pirate captain.
Possibly they would have taken advantage of the offer had it not
been that the fear of ridicule was stronger than their inclination
to keep within the law.
Trevorrick's smile had given place to a look of grim determination.
His shaggy eyebrows met in a continuous straight line; his
aggressive jaw shot forward.
"That's settled, my lads!" he exclaimed. "Now, there's something
more to remember. I am the captain of this craft. My orders you'll
carry out smartly, at the double, and unquestioningly. If they're
not, there'll be trouble--but there won't. In the future, you--and
others--will know me as Captain Cain. Mr. Pengelly here is second in
command; Mr. Barnard is bos'un, and Mr. Marchant, gunner. These,
under me, are your officers and must be treated with respect due to
their rank. I insist upon perfect discipline, which alone will
enable us to win through. If any man has a grievance against
another, there must be no quarrelling. He must report the
circumstances to me and abide by my decision.... Mr. Marchant,
before the men are piped down, serve out a tot of rum apiece and
drink success to the _Alerte_ and all who sail in her."
For the last hour the motors had been stopped. There was no
immediate hurry to reach the rendezvous, and Captain Cain was too
prudent a man to use up oil in aimlessly cruising up-Channel. Unless
another craft came within sight the _Alerte_ could drift; but the
pirate skipper realised the risk of his vessel wallowing in the long
swell without carrying way. That would be in itself sufficient to
excite the curiosity of any passing shipping.
Presently, after a prolonged examination of the horizon, Captain
Cain went below to his cabin, leaving Pengelly in charge of the
deck. For certain reasons, the skipper did not desire the presence
of his lieutenant.
He touched the bell and, on a man entering to inquire his pleasure,
ordered Jones to be brought to him.
The wretched Jasper Chamfer, looking ill and horribly scared, was
brusquely shown into Captain Cain's cabin.
"Good-morning," was the captain's greeting, as genial as if he were
dealing with Chamfer in his capacity of Admiralty inspector.
"Good-morning," replied Chamfer, almost automatically. He was too
bewildered to grasp the significance of his captor's irony.
"Sorry to trouble you," continued Captain Cain, "but there are a few
formalities to be observed in the carrying out of our agreement.
That twenty thousand: is it in shares?"
"Government Four per Cents., redeemable in 1931," replied Chamfer.
"Also Six per Cents. Royal Mail."
"Deposited with whom?"
"My bankers, Trevannion Brothers, Plymouth."
"Manager a friend of yours?"
"I know him fairly well."
"Good," commented Captain Cain. "Here are paper, pen and ink. First
write out an order transferring twenty thousand pounds to my
account--Thomas Trevorrick--payable to my bankers, Messrs.
Grabaul, Yewgett and Co., Truro."
For some minutes there was silence in the cabin. Somewhere for'ard a
gramophone was blaring out that popular ditty: "Then he knew he'd
parted."
Without a word, Chamfer handed over the order. The captain read it
carefully.
"Ever heard that story about the Harley Street specialist, Mr.
Chamfer?" he inquired. "Two of the brigands met in Oxford Street.
Said one, 'How much did you charge So-and-so for that operation?'
'Seventy-eight pounds fifteen and sixpence,' was the reply.
'Extraordinary amount,' commented the other. 'Whatever made you fix
that sum?' The specialist laughed. 'I made him show me his
pass-book,' he replied. Well, I'm not asking to see yours, Mr.
Chamfer, nor am I lifting all your little pile. At the same time, I
want to make sure of what I have got, so just write a friendly
little covering letter to the manager of your bank."
"What shall I say?" asked the victim wearily.
"Gracious, man! Haven't you any imagination? Perhaps that
qualification isn't required of Admiralty Civil Servants. Tell him
you've been unexpectedly ordered a sea voyage by your medical
adviser, and that before you go you must make certain adjustments in
your finances.... That's right. I presume you won't require a
receipt?"
"What are you going to do with me now?" asked Jasper Chamfer,
tremulously.
"What I told you before," replied the pirate, with a grin. "A voyage
to Jamaica or Pernambuco will do you a world of good. Broaden your
outlook on life, Chamfer; enlarge your mental horizon. But,
remember, for the next four months your name's Jones. One hint to
the contrary and, by Jove! your number's up. 'Nough said!"
Placing both documents in his pocket-book, Captain Cain turned to go
on deck.
"You can amuse yourself as you like," he remarked. "You've got the
run of the ship. There's nothing to be afraid of provided you hold
your tongue."
It was blowing freshly from the west'ard when Captain Cain rejoined
his lieutenant. The _Alerte_, with a trysail bent to keep her steady,
was steering S.E. by S. making about one knot. Well away to the
east'ard a beaten-down trail of smoke betokened the presence of some
sort of steam vessel. To the south'ard half a dozen tanned sails
indicated the position of one of the Cornish fishing fleets making
for home.
"Got it, sir?" inquired Pengelly. By this time the "sir" came with
no noticeable hesitation, though the utterance caused the man to
curse inwardly every time he had occasion to address his
self-constituted superior officer.
"Yes," replied Captain Cain. "He parted like a lamb. I've an order
for the twenty thousand. I'll have that transferred to Saldanha at
Bahia. Useful man, Saldanha."
Late that afternoon, and after the sun had set beneath the misty
waters of the English Channel, the _Alerte_, with smoke pouring from
her funnel, rolled and lurched past Rame Head, rounded Penlee Point
and brought up in the sheltered waters of Cawsand Bay. There was no
attempt made to conceal her presence. An anchor-lamp shone brightly
from the forestay. To all appearances she was just an ordinary tramp
that had brought up outside Plymouth Breakwater while awaiting
orders, and thus saving harbour dues which she would have incurred
had she entered the Catwater.
"I'm going on the beach, Mr. Pengelly," announced the skipper, loud
enough for the watch on deck to hear. "Send a boat for me at
ten-thirty."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the second in command, following up by
ordering one of the boats to be lowered.
Ten minutes later Captain Cain, in shore-going rig, landed on the
sandy beach at Cawsand. A few fishermen were lolling about in the
narrow streets of the village. A member of the Coast Preventive
Force was talking to the village policeman. Both glanced at the
stranger, merely by force of habit. It was not unusual for people to
come ashore at Cawsand.
"Can you tell me the nearest way to Plymouth?" asked Captain Cain of
the modern substitute of the old coastguardman, not because he did
not know, but to give the man an opportunity of questioning him.
Captain Cain was a good walker. In quick time he covered the
distance between Cawsand and Cremyll, crossed by means of the ferry
to Devonport, and hastened along Union Street. Here he posted
two missives: one in Chamfer's handwriting, addressed to the local
bank (that would bear the Plymouth postmark, which was no small
advantage); the other to his own bankers, instructing them that on
the receipt of securities to the extent of twenty thousand pounds
they were to sell out and transfer the proceeds to the firm of Señor
Paquita, Calle Rancagua, Copuapo, Chile.
"Guess that fool Pengelly would look a bit sick if he knew,"
soliloquised Captain Cain, as he turned to retrace his steps. "It's
all in the game. If I don't look after Number One, who else will?"