"Neil," he called. "Neil Moran."
"Yes?"
"You're wanted on deck."
As his brother emerged from the door, Tod drew him to the bulwarks. Night was closing down. The Araby, steaming west for Colon, was entering the Caribbean. The Leeward Islands lay astern; Saint Croix was somewhere off the port bow.
"Neil," Tod whispered, "Jarvis just sent word for me to come and see him. You wait near the alleyway; I want you to talk to him too."
"Oh, don't bother about me. I've talked to Jarvis."
"Yes; but I want you to be friends."
"All right. I'll come along."
Tod led the way toward the cook's cabin. At the alleyway entrance, they halted as they saw Mr, Hawkes step from Jarvis's door and proceed aft. They waited until his burly form had disappeared into the officer's cabin, and then Tod went forward and knocked upon the cook's door.
"Come in."
Tod stepped within and closed the door behind him. Tom Jarvis reclined on his bunk. He took his large pipe from his mouth and motioned Tod to the settee.
"Hullo, Joe Macaroni. How's the coal-passer?"
Tod dropped on the worn red seat and smiled. "Fair," he said; "it's not so bad."
"Did you think I was mad at you?" Jarvis rose to a sitting position; he rubbed the bowl of his pipe on his nose. His penetrating eyes were fixed on the youth.
"No " Tod hesitated, then stumbled on.
"You've never asked me what happened. You've never asked me where I found Neil. He was a prisoner, Tom. Swickard had him locked in a villa near Nice."
"I know it. But go ahead. Let me hear you."
A rush of words came to the youth's lips. He was back once more in Marseilles, following Mr. Hawkes and Jasper Swickard to the Gare St. Charles. Jarvis listened, his shoulders forward, his elbows on his knees. He puffed slowly, reflectively; his eyes never left his visitor's face.
"Well, Joe Macaroni, we've both been playing our own little game," he admitted when Tod had finished with their meeting in the Genoa flophouse. "And mine has been a desperate one." He drummed with his knuckles on his knee. His voice dropped to an undertone. "Hawkes doesn't intend this ship to get to Colon."
Tod raised an excited face. "The cargo's false. I unscrewed the door to number three hold."
Jarvis hung on to his words. His brow contracted; his chin shot forward. "I suspected as much; but I wasn't sure. Mr. Hawkes is ready, then, to spring his trick. The flood tide is on with him now; but when it turns it'll ebb fast. I'm standing by, waiting. We're sailing close to the wind, Joe Macaroni."
"You mean any time? Now?"
With a nod Jarvis rose. Standing erect, his huge body seemed to dwarf the narrow cabin. "I don't like these shoal waters we'll be hitting toward midnight," he said thoughtfully. "I was thinking of you below, Joe Macaroni. You're in a mighty dangerous place. Watch. Be prepared at any time."
"Even to-night?"
"Yes; Hawkes is taking his watch on the bridge this evening. Why? It isn't his turn. And the cap'n is dead drunk in the cabin aft." Jarvis swung about with a lithe movement. "Now, go out and send that brother of yours in. I want to talk to him— alone."
Tod rose and slipped out the door. He motioned to Neil, who stood at the engine-room entrance, gazing below. "He wants to see you," Tod whispered.
"Thanks, kid. I'll go in." Neil swung back the cabin door and disappeared.
Tod went down the alleyway to the fore-deck. Under the stars, the night was dark. He crossed to number two hatch, seated himself, and glanced up at the bridge. Mr. Burton, the third mate, stood outlined against the wheelhouse window. To starboard shone the steady glow of the green light, to port the red eye with its threat of danger. In the crow's nest high above, the lookout was peering ahead into the darkness. Barely a breeze stirred the calm waters; yet suspense hung heavy in the air.
The chart-room windows leaped into sudden visibility, and Tod discerned Mr. Hawkes turn from the deck-head lights and bend over the chart table. At the same instant, the ship's bell began sounding from the bridge. One, two — three, four — five, six — seven, eight. As the bronze bell on the forecastle head took up the notes in a deeper tone, Tod sprang for the alleyway.
"Neil," he whispered, opening the cabin door, "eight bells."
"Coming." Tod glimpsed his brother clasp Jarvis's hand.
Tod ran for the fire-room fiddley. He had already reached the first grating when his brother plunged into the entrance above him. They descended the iron rungs of the ladder while the warm air whirled up about them. In the stokehole the firemen were drawing their buckets of hot water. Blackie Judson was snarling at the condition of one of his fires. Tod gave him only a glance as he ducked his head and hurried up to the black yawning mouth of the bunkers. Shorty the Greek came toward him with laggard steps.
"They let Tony out yet?" His begrimed face was turned hopefully toward the youth.
"No—not yet."
The coal-passer swore beneath his breath and with-jut another word propelled his exhausted body in laboured movements toward the stokehole.
Tod Moran picked up the coal barrow and swung to the left. He went at his work slowly but steadily; he knew the amount of coal necessary to keep the stokers satisfied below. The moments dragged their weary way toward midnight. It was strange how little thinking one did here when there was nothing to bother! But the aching muscles in one's back and arms seemed to drain every ounce of energy from one's body. A languorous torpor enveloped the mind. By golly, he was tired; and probably it was not more than ten o'clock.
Suddenly, without a moment's warning, the lights winked out.
The suspense that all evening had hung in the thick black air seemed to close down with the oppressive darkness. Tod put down his barrow and listened. He heard the rhythmic tremor of the engines—they were all right, then. The propeller was going too. He took the sweat rag from his belt and wiped his face. His thin shirt clung to his moist body; he felt the sweat trickle down his belly. He jerked the shirt over his head and flung it away. Then, with outstretched hands, he stumbled round toward the fire room.
His hands touched the low tunnel entrance. He stooped and came out into the stokehole. Red splashes of fire played on the plates of the flooring. He made out the forms of Neil and his two companions standing against the bulkhead. They seemed waiting, expectant, listening.
"What's happened, Neil?" Tod felt his mouth go dry.
"The dynamo, I guess. I just heard the second call for lamps."
"Yeah," grunted Black Judson, "you kin expect anythin' on this blamed tub. It'll be these rotten boilers that'll blow up next." He dropped to a sitting position on the plates. "Let 'em bring us a lamp," he muttered. "We can't work without lights."
Neil's voice, low, vibrant, came from the flickering darkness. "You stay here, Tod, near the fiddley. I'll go and get some lamps."
Tod heard him cross to the tunnel at the corner and go aft to the engine room. Ten minutes, probably, had elapsed before he returned with a brass oil lamp and a lantern in his hands. "The chief got them from the locker," he vouchsafed in a lowered voice. "There isn't much oil in them, and the mate says there's no more to be had. Forgot to get some in Genoa."
Passing the lantern first to Tod, he stuck the lamp in a brass holder in the bulkhead. In the dim light, Tod gave his brother a searching look, but Neil's face lay imperturbable. Only when the youth turned away did the older brother stride his way and whisper: "Sparks is working on the dynamo, too. The wireless has gone dead. Be ready—any time."