"It's the _Port of Amsterdam_," cried Harman, "It's the salvage ship,
she's there droppin' her anchor; we're done, we're dished--and we
foolin' like this and they crawlin' up on us."
"And you said she'd only do eight knots!" cried Blood.
Ginnell flung the revolver on the floor. Every trace of the recent
occurrence had vanished, and the three men thought no more of one
another than a man thinks of petty matters in the face of dissolution.
Gunderman was outside, that was enough for them.
"Boys," said Ginnell, "ain't there no way out with them dollars?
S'pose we howk them ashore?"
"Cliffs two hundred foot high," said Harman, "not a chanst. We're
dished."
Said Blood: "There's only one thing left. We'll walk the dollars down
to the boat and row off with them. Of course we'll be stopped; still,
there's the chance that Gunderman may be drunk or something. It's one
chance in a hundred billion--it's the only one."
But Gunderman was not drunk, nor were his boat party; and the
court-martial he held on the beach in broken English and with the sack
of coin beside him as chief witness would form a bright page of
literature had one time to record it.
Pages:
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403