“CANDON”
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.