“He knows this business of scuttling ships better than any one I ever heard of,” Drake soliloquized. “But if he cleared off this time, without waiting to see her under, he made one hell of a mistake.”
He looked at his watch in the light of his torch and meditated: “If Bill moves lively and doesn’t lose his way, he should be back here in half an hour from now. If he loses his way in this blamed fog—I’m afraid we cut it pretty short!”
He climbed back to the deck, went to the port side, from which the boat had put off, and listened, prepared to answer a hail, if Catlin returned groping and had to shout to learn his bearings. Then from the opposite side of the ship, he heard a single telltale thump, as if an oar in clumsy hands had slipped from an oarlock and brought up with a bang.
Drake ran across to the starboard rail just in time to hear a muttered imprecation, in colloquial Greek:
“Quiet there, you lubber! If the skipper and those two pets of his are hanging around, we’ve a fine chance of getting away with anything.”
Drake pursed his lips into a silent whistle, and through his mind ran the thought: “It’s the crew of this craft come back. Probably suspected something and are trying somehow to double-cross Morris, Simmons and whoever they’ve let in on it with ’em. I’m a fool. Should have kept at least one man with me for such an emergency.”
Quick as was his thought, his action was quicker. He jerked off his boots and threw off his jacket. He ran aft in the direction that he was certain the boat must take to board, and leaned over the rail just as a man started to climb upward.
“Get back into that boat and sheer off,” he called down. “This ship is abandoned and is salvage.”
The man hesitated, and a voice from below ordered:
“Go on up! We’ll talk this over on deck.”