"He couldn't swim."
"Who was it?" the skipper demanded.
"Auiki," was the answer.
"But I say, you know, I heard shots," Bertie said, in trembling
eagerness, for he scented adventure, and adventure that was happily
over with.
The mate whirled upon him, snarling:
"It's a damned lie. There ain't been a shot fired. The nigger fell
overboard."
Captain Hansen regarded Bertie with unblinking, lack-lustre eyes.
"I--I thought--" Bertie was beginning.
"Shots? Did you hear any shots, Mr. Jacobs?"
"Not a shot," replied Mr. Jacobs.
The skipper looked at his guest triumphantly, and said:
"Evidently an accident. Let us go down, Mr. Arkwright, and finish
dinner."
Bertie slept that night in the captain's cabin, a tiny stateroom off
the main-cabin. The for'ard bulkhead was decorated with a stand of
rifles. Over the bunk were three more rifles. Under the bunk was a
big drawer, which when he pulled it out, he found filled with
ammunition dynamite, and several boxes of detonators. He elected to
take the settee on the opposite side. Lying conspicuously on the small
table, was the _Arla's_ log. Bertie did not know that it had been
especially prepared for the occasion by Captain Malu, and he read
therein how on September 21, two boat's crew had fallen overboard and
been drowned.
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