'Lead on, McDuff,' said the young man, and Hannibal, swallowing nearly a tumbler full of neat Lagavulin whisky (no charge for advt.) did lead on.
'Maggie McPherson lived at Paisley,' he began, 'and she suffered sair with the piles. So that her mother took her to Glasgow to see the great doctor. After he had examined the lassie, he turned to Mrs. McPherson, and said, “Madam, I am of the opinion that it will be necessary for your daughter Maggie to have an enema introduced into her anus.”
'“And what,” said Mrs. McPherson, “is this anus that you're talkin' aboot, and this enema?”
'“The anus, Mrs. McPherson, is the arsehole of your daughter Maggie, and the enema is the instrument I have here” (producing an ordinary syringe with a bulb in the middle).
'“Maggie come awa', I didna bring ye tae Glesca tae be buggered by a bagpipe.” '
There was general laughter, and down went the remainder of the whisky.
'Are we not going to see any more of the-er-ladies?' hazarded Mr. Silverwood.
'Not dressed like the first,' answered the young man; 'our rule is only one at a time decorated like that, but wait till you come to our little island “set in a summer sea”. The native women are very, very beautiful. Floradora isn't in it; in fact I may have mentioned that I have upwards of 250 wives and mistresses myself.'
'Shakes!' ejaculated Mr. Silverwood: 'you must be a regular Solomon.'
'I flatter myself I do my duty,' responded the young man, modestly.
'Hooch aye,' sighed Hannibal McGregor, 'ye remind me of a bit joke ma wife just crackit ainst. It has aye been ma habit to read to the guid wife fra' the Guid Book on the Sawbath, an' I was reading hoo the gran' king had 700 wives and 350 concubines, and I said, “Ywould be a gran' thing to be King Solomon.”
'“Och awa wi' ye!” said the auld bitch-“a pretty Solomon ye'd ha bin, wi' yer ainst a fortnight.” '
Once again the whisky was deplenished.
Mr. Billy Neale, the matinee idol, chipped into the conversation.
'Once more, touching Solomon,' he said, 'that reminds me of another yarn. They were talking in some theatrical public house also of the happiness of Solomon, in that he had so many wives, and-er “help two ends to meet”.
'“And wot did he want all those for?” queried the very, very low comedian.
'“You see, Solomon was a very strong man, and he needed much amatory comfort.”'
'“Garn: you tell me he needed over a thousand bits o' skirt. Why, I knows a little girl called Rosey, Peckham Rye way, 'ood fuck 'is 'ed orf in a week” '
There was a momentary pause, while Mr. Neale complacently patted his neatly-creased trousers, and a little boy came into the room. He was about sixteen, and quite out of the common good-looking, plump, but alert. His uncovered head showed a wealth of crisp, curly hair. In fact he was of the type of 'pretty boy' who is so often unduly popular at public schools.
'Mr. Prendergast's compliments, sir,' he said to the young man, 'and he says that he thinks that the gentleman in irons has had about enough. He's beginning to foam at the mouth.'
'Well, well, tell Mr. Prendergast to send him to us. Keep the irons on, though.'
In less than two minutes the captive was shown in.
He trembled, and the irons clattered as Mr. Prendergast led him by the elbow. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes glittered wildly.
Behind him walked the maddening female apparition, still naked and quite unashamed, who had so upset the pirates before.
Mr. Silverwood nearly had a fit.
After an interval of a few seconds the boy followed.
'Well, Lord Reginald,' said the young man, genially, 'we have released you, but your punishment is not quite completed yet. Do you like your lady jailer?'
'Yes-er- damn her-' faltered the young nobleman. The marked protuberance in his trousers showed that he had appreciated her beauty very much indeed.
The lady, whom the young man informally introduced for the first time as Maudie, sat down, with her infernally bewitching grace, on one of the divans. Her beautiful naked flesh sank luxuriously into the soft cushions.
Mr. Silverwood rose and left the room abruptly, the tense twitchings of his high-boned cheeks betraying his extreme physical excitement.
He found the upper deck, and wandered aimlessly aft. The New Decameron was shooting into the Gulf Stream with the Southern Cross right above her foremast, and the turbines purred a soft tune, suggestive of the lump of naked loveliness below and what might be happening.
Suddenly he encountered Miss Jepps. The feint glitter of the stars lit up her face a little and she looked very alluring. She was wearing a heavy sealskin coat and sitting in a very tired attitude on one of the deck seats.
Mr. Silverwood saw the chance of once more working off the extreme erotic excitement which possessed him. He dropped on to the seat by her side and kissed her roughly and passionately. A sharp slap on the face was his only reward.
'Get away, you sod; I've had fourteen of them already. What is going to happen to me on this ship?'
The poor man murmured something about money.
'Money,' answered Miss Jepps, savagely, 'money, you can write your cheque-book silly before you get my thighs to open. I never want to feel a man's breath on my lips again in my life. Give me a cigarette and sit on the other end, the very other end of the seat.'
Mr. Silverwood obeyed, and as he obliged the worn-out lady with a match, little Hony wandered aimlessly by and climbed to the bridge.
Hie young man, in response to a message from the bridge, left the smoke-room and made his way on deck.
Herr Kunst silently followed. In the shadow of one of the lifeboats he touched the former on the shoulder.
'May I some business talk?' he said.
'Of course.'
'It is dat you make much moneys, ain't it?' he queried.
'Very fair, very fair.'
'I know der ships vat der diamonds carries,' said Herr Kunst 'Der vos der Rheingold, private owned, she vould not be to the Canaries arrived yet.'
'Ah, good,' said the young man. 'Mr.-Mr.-'
'Herr Kunst mein name it is. It vos an awkward name, but it vos mein only von I haf, ain't it?'
The young man smiled.
'It is just dis,' Herr Kunst hurried to explain in a guttural whisper. 'Dere is dat of der most God-damnedest shits, Solly Joelstein, who schvindle me in Jo'burg, who was vuck mein most beautiful wife, und seduction mein kleine daughter. Dat lump of vat you call 'im, turd, ain't it?'-Herr Kunst grew very excited-'he vos in his yacht der tousands and tousands of illicit diamonds carry to England. He vos pick up anuder yacht and transfer der stones. Ve meet 'im. I know der vireless code, an' ve take all ze stones and shoot de Goddam-vuck-bugger bloody into der sea in for der sharks his balls to off bite, ain't it?'
'Certainly, certainly,' said the young man.
'An for me twenty-five per cent, ain't it?'
'Well-yes. I'll tell the electrician to inform you if we pick up any code message he doesn't understand. Now I must go the bridge.'
CHAPTER FOUR. '“Hony” soit qui mal y pense '
The night was very beautiful and Hony felt romantic. The vault of sky was stilettoed by silver sparks, and the phosphorous danced on the waves cleaved by the razor bows of the New Decameron.
In the middle distance an old tramp shambled its 7 1/2 knots northward. The searchlight of the New Decameron picked her up for a moment. Hony could see two bored-looking men on the bridge. One, with a lantern, was pouring something into a cup. 'What,' she thought, 'would they think of the comfort the turbines beneath her were driving?'
She turned to the brilliant electric lights of the chart-house, and cuddled her mother's sables round her as a fleck of foam flew up from the port bows.
The young man came softly up to the bridge, and put one hand caressingly on her neck.