Hearts of Three E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: ShadowPOET
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Hearts of Three By
Jack London
Publisher: ShadowPOET
CHAPTER I.
Events happened very rapidly with Francis Morgan that late spring morning. If ever a man leaped across time into the raw, red drama and tragedy of the primitive and the medieval melodrama of sentiment and passion of the New World Latin, Francis Morgan was destined to be that man, and Destiny was very immediate upon him.
Yet he was lazily unaware that aught in the world was stirring, and was scarcely astir himself. A late night at bridge had necessitated a late rising. A late breakfast of fruit and cereal had occurred along the route to the library— the austerely elegant room from which his father, toward the last, had directed vast and manifold affairs.
“Parker,” he said to the valet who had been his father’s before him, “did you ever notice any signs of fat on R.H.M. in his last days?”
“Oh, no, sir,” was the answer, uttered with all the due humility of the trained servant, but accompanied by an involuntarily measuring glance that scanned the young man’s splendid proportions. “Your father, sir, never lost his leanness. His figure was always the same, broad-shouldered, deep in the chest, big-boned, but lean, always lean, sir, in the middle. When he was laid out, sir, and bathed, his body would have shamed most of the young men about town. He always took good care of himself; it was those exercises in bed, sir. Half an hour every morning. Nothing prevented. He called it religion.”
“Yes, he was a fine figure of a man,” the young man responded idly, glancing to the stock-ticker and the several telephones his father had installed.
“He was that,” Parker agreed eagerly. “He was lean and aristocratic in spite of his shoulders and bone and chest. And you’ve inherited it, sir, only on more generous lines.”
Young Francis Morgan, inheritor of many millions as well as brawn, lolled back luxuriously in a huge leather chair, stretched his legs after the manner of a full-vigored menagerie lion that is overspilling with vigor, and glanced at a headline of the morning paper which informed him of a fresh slide in the Culebra Cut at Panama.
“If I didn’t know we Morgans didn’t run that way,” he yawned, “I’d be fat already from this existence Eh, Parker?”
The elderly valet, who had neglected prompt reply, startled at the abrupt interrogative interruption of the pause.
“Oh, yes, sir,” he said hastily. “I mean, no, sir. You are in the pink of
condition.”
“Not on your life,” the young man assured him. “I may not be getting fat, but I am certainly growing soft Eh, Parker?”
“Yes, sir. No, sir; no, I mean no, sir. You’re just the same as when you came home from college three years ago.”
“And took up loafing as a vocation,” Francis laughed. “Parker!”
Parker was alert attention. His master debated with himself ponderously, as if the problem were of profound importance, rubbing the while the bristly thatch of the small toothbrush moustache he had recently begun to sport on his upper lip.
“Parker, I’m going fishing.” “Yes, sir!”
“I ordered some rods sent up. Please joint them and let me give them the once over. The idea drifts through my mind that two weeks in the woods is what I need. If I don’t, I’ll surely start laying on flesh and disgrace the whole family tree. You remember Sir Henry?—the old original Sir Henry, the buccaneer old swashbuckler?”
“Yes, sir; I’ve read of him, sir.”

Leseprobe

HeartsofThreeBy

JackLondon

Publisher: ShadowPOET

CHAPTERI.

EventshappenedveryrapidlywithFrancisMorganthatlatespringmorning. If ever a man leaped across time into the raw, red drama and tragedyof the primitive and the medieval melodrama of sentiment and passion of theNew World Latin, Francis Morgan was destined to be that man, and Destinywasveryimmediateuponhim.

Yet he was lazily unaware that aught in the world was stirring, and wasscarcely astir himself. A late night at bridge had necessitated a late rising. Alate breakfast of fruit and cereal had occurred along the route to the library—the austerely elegant room from which his father, toward the last, had directedvastandmanifoldaffairs.

“Parker,” he said to the valet who had been his father’s before him, “didyouevernoticeanysignsoffatonR.H.M.inhislastdays?”

“Oh, no, sir,” was the answer, uttered with all the due humility of thetrained servant, but accompanied by an involuntarily measuring glance thatscannedtheyoungman’ssplendidproportions.“Yourfather,sir,neverlosthisleanness.Hisfigurewasalwaysthesame,broad-shouldered,deepinthechest,big-boned, but lean, always lean, sir, in the middle. When he was laid out, sir,and bathed, his body would have shamed most of the young men about town.Healwaystookgoodcareofhimself;itwasthoseexercisesinbed,sir.Halfanhoureverymorning.Nothingprevented.Hecalleditreligion.”

“Yes, he was a fine figure of a man,” the young man responded idly,glancingtothestock-tickerandtheseveraltelephoneshisfatherhadinstalled.

“Hewasthat,”Parkeragreedeagerly.“Hewasleanandaristocraticinspiteofhisshouldersandboneandchest.Andyou’veinheritedit,sir,onlyonmoregenerouslines.”

Young Francis Morgan, inheritor of many millions as well as brawn, lolledback luxuriously in a huge leather chair, stretched his legs after the manner ofa full-vigored menagerie lion that is overspilling with vigor, and glanced at aheadline of the morning paper which informed him of a fresh slide in theCulebraCutatPanama.

“If I didn’t know we Morgans didn’t run that way,” he yawned, “I’d be fatalreadyfromthisexistenceEh,Parker?”

The elderly valet, who had neglected prompt reply, startled at the abruptinterrogativeinterruptionofthepause.

“Oh,yes,sir,”hesaidhastily.“Imean,no,sir.Youareinthepinkof

condition.”

“Not on your life,” the young man assured him. “I may not be getting fat,butIamcertainlygrowingsoftEh,Parker?”

“Yes, sir. No, sir; no, I mean no, sir. You’re just the same as when youcamehomefromcollegethreeyearsago.”

“Andtookuploafingasavocation,”Francislaughed.“Parker!”

Parkerwasalertattention.Hismasterdebatedwithhimselfponderously,asif the problem were of profound importance, rubbing the while the bristlythatchofthesmalltoothbrushmoustachehehadrecentlybeguntosportonhisupperlip.

“Parker,I’mgoingfishing.”“Yes,sir!”

“I ordered some rods sent up. Please joint them and let me give them theonce over. The idea drifts through my mind that two weeks in the woods iswhat I need. If I don’t, I’ll surely start laying on flesh and disgrace the wholefamilytree.YourememberSirHenry?—theoldoriginalSirHenry,thebuccaneeroldswashbuckler?”

“Yes,sir;I’vereadofhim,sir.”

Parker had paused in the doorway until such time as the ebbing of hisyoungmaster’svolubilitywouldpermithimtodepartontheerrand.

“Nothingtobeproudof,theoldpirate.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Parker protested. “He was Governor of Jamaica. He diedrespected.”

“It was a mercy he didn’t die hanged,” Francis laughed. “As it was, he’sthe only disgrace in the family that he founded. But what I was going to say isthat I’ve looked him up very carefully. He kept his figure and he died lean inthe middle, thank God. It’s a good inheritance he passed down. We Morgansneverfoundhistreasure;butbeyondrubiesisthelean-in-the-middlelegacyhebequeathed us. It’s what is called a fixed character in the breed—that’s whattheprofstaughtmeinthebiologycourse.”

Parker faded out of the room in the ensuing silence, during which FrancisMorgan buried himself in the Panama column and learned that the canal wasnotexpectedtobeopenfortrafficforthreeweekstocome.

A telephone buzzed, and, through the electric nerves of a consummatecivilization, Destiny made the first out-reach of its tentacles and contactedwithFrancisMorganinthelibraryofthemansionhisfatherhadbuildedon

RiversideDrive.

“ButmydearMrs.Carruthers,”washisprotestintothetransmitter.“Whatever it is, it is a mere local flurry. Tampico Petroleum is all right. It isnotagamblingproposition.Itislegitimateinvestment.Staywith.Tietoit....

Some Minnesota farmer’s come to town and is trying to buy a block or twobecauseitlooksassolidasitreallyis Whatifitisuptwopoints?Don’tsell.

Tampico Petroleum is not a lottery or a roulette proposition. It’s bona fideindustry. I wish it hadn’t been so almighty big or I’d have financed it allmyself Listen,please,it’snotaflyer.Ourpresentcontractsfortanksisover

a million. Our railroad and our three pipe-lines are costing more than fivemillions. Why, we’ve a hundred millions in producing wells right now, andour problem is to get it down country to the oil-steamers. This is the soberinvestment time. A year from now, or two years, and your shares will makegovernmentbondslooklikesomethingthecatbroughtin”

“Yes, yes, please. Never mind how the market goes. Also, please, I didn’tadvise you to go in in the first place. I never advised a friend to that. But nowthat they are in, stick. It’s as solid as the Bank of England.... Yes, Dicky and Idivided the spoils last night. Lovely party, though Dicky’s got too muchtemperament for bridge.... Yes, bull luck.... Ha! ha! My temperament? Ha!Ha!...Yes?...TellHarryI’moffandawayforacoupleofweeks Fishing,

troutlets,youknow,thespringtimeandthestreams,theriseofsap,thebudding and the blossoming and all the rest.... Yes, good-bye, and hold on toTampico Petroleum. If it goes down, after that Minnesota farmer’s bulled it,buyalittlemore.I’mgoingto.It’sfindingmoney....Yes....Yes,surely It’s

toogoodtodaresellonaflyernow,becauseitmayn’teveragaingodown....

Of course I know what I’m talking about. I’ve just had eight hours’ sleep, andhaven’thadadrink....Yes,yesGood-bye.”

He pulled the ticker tape into the comfort of his chair and languidly ranoverit,notingwithmildlygrowinginterestthemessageitconveyed.

Parkerreturnedwithseveralslenderrods,eachaglitteringgemofartisanshipandart.Franciswasoutofhischair,tickerflungasideandforgotten as with the exultant joy of a boy he examined the toys and, one afteranother,begantryingthem,switchingthemthroughtheairtilltheymadeshrillwhip-like noises, moving them gently with prudence and precision under thelofty ceiling as he made believe to cast across the floor into some unseen pooloftrout-lurkingmystery.

Atelephonebuzzed.Irritationwasswiftonhisface.

“For heaven’s sake answer it, Parker,” he commanded. “If it is some sillystock-gambling female, tell her I’m dead, or drunk, or down with typhoid, orgettingmarried,oranythingcalamitous.”

After a moment’s dialogue, conducted on Parker’s part, in the discreet andmodulated tones that befitted absolutely the cool, chaste, noble dignity of theroom,witha“Onemoment,sir,”intothetransmitter,hemuffledthetransmitterwithhishandandsaid:

“It’sMr.Bascom,sir.Hewantsyou.”

“Tell Mr. Bascom to go to hell,” said Francis, simulating so long a cast,that, had it been in verity a cast, and had it pursued the course his fascinatedgazeindicated,itwouldhavegonethroughthewindowandmostlikelystartledthegardeneroutsidekneelingovertherosebushhewasplanting.

“Mr. Bascom says it’s about the market, sir, and that he’d like to talk withyou only a moment,” Parker urged, but so delicately and subduedly as to seemtobemerelyrepeatinganimmaterialandunnecessarymessage.

“All right.” Francis carefully leaned the rod against a table and went to the‘phone.

“Hello,” he said into the telephone. “Yes, this is I, Morgan. Shoot, What isit?”

He listened for a minute, then interrupted irritably: “Sell—hell. Nothing ofthe sort.... Of course, I’m glad to know. Even if it goes up ten points, which itwon’t, hold on to everything. It may be a legitimate rise, and it mayn’t evercome down. It’s solid. It’s worth far more than it’s listed. I know, if the publicdoesn’t. A year from now it’ll list at two hundred ... that is, if Mexico can cuttherevolutionstuff....Wheneveritdropsyou’llhavebuyingordersfromme....

Nonsense. Who wants control? It’s purely sporadic eh? I beg your pardon. I

mean it’s merely temporary. Now I’m going off fishing for a fortnight. If itgoes down five points, buy. Buy all that’s offered. Say, when a fellow’s got areal bona fide property, being bulled is almost as bad as having the bears afterone...yes....Sureyes.Good-bye.”

And while Francis returned delightedly to his fishing-rods, Destiny, inThomas Regan’s down-town private office, was working overtime. Havingarranged with his various brokers to buy, and, through his divers channels ofsecret publicity having let slip the cryptic tip that something was wrong withTampico Petroleum’s concessions from the Mexican government, ThomasRegan studied a report of his own oil-expert emissary who had spent twomonthsonthespotspyingoutwhatTampicoPetroleumreallyhadinsightandprospect.

Aclerkbroughtinacardwiththeinformationthatthevisitorwasimportunateandforeign.Reganlistened,glancedatthecard,andsaid:

“TellthisMisterSenorAlvarezTorresofCiodaddeColonthatIcan’tsee

him.”

Fiveminuteslatertheclerkwasback,thistimewithamessagepencilledonthecard.Regangrinnedashereadit:

“DearMr.Regan,“HonouredSir:—

“I have the honour to inform you that I have a tip on the location of thetreasureSirHenryMorganburiedinoldpiratedays.

“AlvarezTorres.”

Regan shook his head, and the clerk was nearly out of the room when hisemployersuddenlyrecalledhim.

“Showhimin—atonce.”

In the interval of being alone, Regan chuckled to himself as he rolled thenew idea over in his mind. “The unlicked cub!” he muttered through thesmokeofthecigarhewaslighting.“Thinkshecanplaythelionpartold

R.H.M. played. A trimming is what he needs, and old Grayhead Thomas R.willseethathegetsit.”

Senor Alvarez Torres’ English was as correct as his modish spring suit, andthough the bleached yellow of his skin advertised his Latin-American origin,and though his black eyes were eloquent of the mixed lustres of Spanish andIndian long compounded, nevertheless he was as thoroughly New Yorkish asThomasRegancouldhavewished.

“By great effort, and years of research, I have finally won to the clue to thebuccaneer gold of Sir Henry Morgan,” he preambled. “Of course it’s on theMosquito Coast. I’ll tell you now that it’s not a thousand miles from theChiriqui Lagoon, and that Bocas del Toro, within reason, may be described asthe nearest town. I was born there—educated in Paris, however—and I knowthe neighbourhood like a book. A small schooner—the outlay is cheap, mostverycheap—butthereturns,thereward—thetreasure!”

Senor Torres paused in eloquent inability to describe more definitely, andThomas Regan, hard man used to dealing with hard men, proceeded to boreintohimandhisdatalikeacross-examiningcriminallawyer.

“Yes,”SenorTorresquicklyadmitted,“Iamsomewhatembarrassed—howshallIsay?—forimmediatefunds.”

“You need the money,” the stock operator assured him brutally, and hebowedpainedacquiescence.

Muchmoreheadmittedundertherapid-fireinterrogation.Itwastrue,he

hadbutrecentlyleftBocasdelToro,buthehopedneveragaintogoback.Andyethewouldgobackifpossiblysomearrangement....

But Regan shut him off with the abrupt way of the master-man dealingwith lesser fellow-creatures. He wrote a check, in the name of Alvarez Torres,and when that gentleman glanced at it he read the figures of a thousanddollars.

“Now here’s the idea,” said Regan. “I put no belief whatsoever in yourstory.ButIhaveayoungfriend—myheartisboundupintheboybutheistoomuch about town, the white lights and the white-lighted ladies, and the rest—you understand?” And Senor Alvarez Torres bowed as one man of the worldto another. “Now, for the good of his health, as well as his wealth and thesaving of his soul, the best thing that could happen to him is a trip aftertreasure,adventure,exercise,andyoureadilyunderstand,Iamsure.”

AgainAlvarezTorresbowed.

“You need the money,” Regan continued. “Strive to interest him. Thatthousand is for your effort. Succeed in interesting him so that he departs afterold Morgan’s gold, and two thousand more is yours. So thoroughly succeed ininteresting him that he remains away three months, two thousand more—sixmonths, five thousand. Oh, believe me, I knew his father. We were comrades,partners, I—I might say, almost brothers. I would sacrifice any sum to win hissontomanhood’swholesomepath.Whatdoyousay?Thethousandisyourstobeginwith.Well?”

With tremblingfingers SenorAlvarez Torresfolded andunfolded thecheck.

“I...Iaccept,”hestammeredandfalteredinhiseagerness.“I...I How

shallIsay? Iamyourstocommand.”

Five minutes later, as he arose to go, fully instructed in the part he was toplay and with his story of Morgan’s treasure revised to convincingness by thebrass-tackbusinessacumenofthestock-gambler,heblurtedout,almostfacetiously,yetevenmorepathetically:

“And the funniest thing about it, Mr. Regan, is that it is true. Your advisedchanges in my narrative make it sound more true, but true it is under it all. Ineedthemoney.Youaremostmunificent,andIshalldomybest....I Ipride

myself that I am an artist. But the real and solemn truth is that the clue toMorgan’s buried loot is genuine. I have had access to records inaccessible tothe public, which is neither here nor there, for the men of my own family—they are family records—have had similar access, and have wasted their livesbefore me in the futile search. Yet were they on the right clue—except thattheirwitsmadethemmissthespotbytwentymiles.Itwasthereinthe

records.Theymissedit,becauseitwas,Ithink,adeliberatetrick,aconundrum, a puzzle, a disguisement, a maze, which I, and I alone, havepenetratedandsolved.Theearlynavigatorsallplayedsuchtricksonthechartsthey drew. My Spanish race so hid the Hawaiian Islands by five degrees oflongitude.”

AllofwhichwasinturnGreektoThomasRegan,whosmiledhisacceptance of listening and with the same smile conveyed his busy business-man’stolerantunbelief.

Scarcely was Senor Torres gone, when Francis Morgan was shown in.“JustthoughtI’ddroparoundforabitofcounsel,”hesaid,greetingsover.

“AndtowhombutyoushouldIapply,whosocloselyplayedthegamewith

my father? You and he were partners, I understand, on some of the biggestdeals. He always told me to trust your judgment. And, well, here I am, and Iwanttogofishing.What’supwithTampicoPetroleum?”

“What is up?” Regan countered, with fine simulation of ignorance of theverythingofmomenthewasresponsibleforprecipitating.“TampicoPetroleum?”

Francis nodded, dropped into a chair, and lighted a cigarette, while Reganconsultedtheticker.

“Tampico Petroleum is up—two points—you should worry,” he opined.“That’swhatIsay,”Francisconcurred.“Ishouldworry.Butjustthesame,

doyouthinksomebunch,ontotheinsidevalueofit—andit’sbig—Ispeak

under the rose, you know, I mean in absolute confidence?” Regan nodded. “Itis big. It is right. It is the real thing. It is legitimate. Now this activity—wouldyouthinkthatsomebody,orsomebunch,istryingtogetcontrol?”

His father’s associate, with the reverend gray of hair thatching his roof ofcrookedbrain,shookthethatch.

“Why,” he amplified, “it may be just a flurry, or it may be a hunch on thestockpublicthatit’sreallygood.Whatdoyousay?”

“Of course it’s good,” was Francis’ warm response. “I’ve got reports,Regan, so good they’d make your hair stand up. As I tell all my friends, this isthe real legitimate. It’s a damned shame I had to let the public in on it. It wasso big, I just had to. Even all the money my father left me, couldn’t swing it—Imean,freemoney,notthestufftiedup—moneytoworkwith.”

“Areyoushort?”theoldermanqueried.

“Oh,I’vegotatidybittooperatewith,”wastheairyreplyofyouth.“Youmean...?”

“Sure.Justthat.Ifshedrops,I’llbuy.It’sfindingmoney.”

“Just about how far would you buy?” was the next searching interrogation,maskedbyanexpressionofmingledgoodhumorandapprobation.

“All I’ve got,” came Francis Morgan’s prompt answer. “I tell you, Regan,it’simmense.”

“Ihaven’tlookedintoittoamounttoanything,Francis;butIwillsayfromthelittleIknowthatitlistensgood.”

“Listens! I tell you, Regan, it’s the Simon-pure, straight legitimate, and it’sa shame to have it listed at all. I don’t have to wreck anybody or anything topull it across. The world will be better for my shooting into it I am afraid tosay how many hundreds of millions of barrels of real oil——say, I’ve got onewell alone, in the Huasteca field, that’s gushed 27,000 barrels a day for sevenmonths.Andit’sstilldoingit.That’sthedropinthebucketwe’vegotpipedtomarket now. And it’s twenty-two gravity, and carries less than two-tenths ofonepercent.ofsediment.Andthere’sonegusher—sixtymilesofpipetobuildto it, and pinched down to the limit of safety, that’s pouring out all over thelandscapejustaboutseventythousandbarrelsaday.—Ofcourse,allinconfidence,youknow.We’redoingnicely,andIdon’twantTampicoPetroleumtoskyrocket.”

“Don’t you worry about that, my lad. You’ve got to get your oil piped, andtheMexicanrevolutionstraightenedoutbeforeeverTampicoPetroleumsoars.You go fishing and forget it.” Regan paused, with finely simulated suddenrecollection, and picked up Alvarez Torres’ card with the pencilled note.“Look, who’s just been to see me.” Apparently struck with an idea, Reganretained the card a moment. “Why go fishing for mere trout? After all, it’sonlyrecreation.Here’sathingtogofishingafterthatthere’srealrecreationin,full-sizeman’srecreation,andnotthePersian-palacerecreationofanAdirondackcamp,withiceandservantsandelectricpush-buttons.Yourfatheralways was more than a mite proud of that old family pirate. He claimed tolooklikehim,andyoucertainlylooklikeyourdad.”

“Sir Henry,” Francis smiled, reaching for the card. “So am I a mite proudoftheoldscoundrel.”

Helookedupquestioninglyfromthereadingofthecard.

“He’s a plausible cuss,” Regan explained. “Claims to have been born rightdown there on the Mosquito Coast, and to have got the tip from private papersin his family. Not that I believe a word of it. I haven’t time or interest to getstartedbelievinginstuffoutsidemyownfield.”

“Justthesame,SirHenrydiedpracticallyapoorman,”Francisasserted,

the lines of the Morgan stubbornness knitting themselves for a flash on hisbrows.“Andtheyneverdidfindanyofhisburiedtreasure.”

“Goodfishing,”Regangirdedgood-humoredly.

“I’dliketomeetthisAlvarezTorresjustthesame,”theyoungmanresponded.

“Fool’s gold,” Regan continued. “Though I must admit that the cuss ismost exasperatingly plausible. Why, if I were younger—but oh, the devil, mywork’scutoutformehere.”

“DoyouknowwhereIcanfindhim?”Franciswasaskingthenextmoment, all unwittingly putting his neck into the net of tentacles that Destiny,inthevisibleincarnationofThomasRegan,wascastingouttosnarehim.

The next morning the meeting took place in Regan’s office. Senor AlvarezTorres startled and controlled himself at first sight of Francis’ face. This wasnotmissedbyRegan,whogrinninglydemanded:

“Looksliketheoldpiratehimself,eh?”

“Yes,theresemblanceismoststriking,”Torreslied,orhalf-lied,forhedidrecognize the resemblance to the portraits he had seen of Sir Henry Morgan;although at the same time under his eyelids he saw the vision of another andliving man who, no less than Francis and Sir Henry, looked as much like bothofthemaseitherlookedliketheother.

Francis was youth that was not to be denied. Modern maps and ancientcharts were pored over, as well as old documents, handwritten in faded ink ontime-yellowedpaper,andattheendofhalfanhourheannouncedthatthenextfish he caught would be on either the Bull or the Calf—the two islets off theLagoon of Chiriqui, on one or the other of which Torres averred the treasurelay.

“I’llcatchto-night’strainforNewOrleans,”Francisannounced.“Thatwilljustmakeconnection with oneoftheUnitedFruitCompany’s boatsfor Colon

—oh,IhaditalllookedupbeforeIsleptlastnight.”

“Butdon’tcharteraschooneratColon,”Torresadvised.“TaketheoverlandtripbyhorsebacktoBelen.There’stheplacetocharter,withunsophisticatednativesailorsandeverythingelseunsophisticated.”

“Listens good!” Francis agreed. “I always wanted to see that country downthere.You’llbereadytocatchto-night’strain,SenorTorres?...Ofcourse,youunderstand,underthecircumstances,I’llbethetreasurerandfoottheexpenses.”

ButataprivyglancefromRegan,AlvarezTorresliedwithswift

efficientness.

“I must join you later, I regret, Mr. Morgan. Some little business thatpresses—how shall I say?—an insignificant little lawsuit that must be settledfirst. Not that the sum at issue is important. But it is a family matter, andthereforegravelyimportant.WeTorreshaveourpride,whichisasillything,Iacknowledge,inthiscountry,butwhichwithusisveryserious.”

“He can join afterward, and straighten you out if you’ve missed the scent,”ReganassuredFrancis.“And,beforeitslipsyourmind,itmightbejustaswelltoarrangewithSenorTorressomedivisionoftheloot...ifyoueverfindit.”

“Whatwouldyousay?”Francisasked.

“Equal division, fifty-fifty,” Regan answered, magnificently arranging theapportionmentbetweenthetwomenofsomethinghewascertaindidnotexist.

“And you will follow after as soon as you can?” Francis asked the LatinAmerican. “Regan, take hold of his little law affair yourself and expedite it,won’tyou?”

“Sure, boy,” was the answer. “And, if it’s needed, shall I advance cash toSenorAlvarez?”

“Fine!” Francis shook their hands in both of his. “It will save me bother.And I’ve got to rush to pack and break engagements and catch that train. Solong,Regan.Good-bye,SenorTorres,untilwemeetsomewherearoundBocasdel Toro, or in a little hole in the ground on the Bull or the Calf—you say youthinkit’stheCalf?Well,untilthen—adios!”

AndSenorAlvarezTorresremainedwithRegansometimelonger,receiving explicit instructions for the part he was to play, beginning withretardationanddelayofFrancis’expedition,andculminatinginsimilarretardationanddelayalwaystobecontinued.

“Inshort,”Reganconcluded,“Idon’talmostcareifhenevercomesback

—if you can keep him down there for the good of his health that long andlonger.”

CHAPTERII

Money, like youth, will not be denied, and Francis Morgan, who was theman-legal and nature-certain representative of both youth and money, foundhimself one afternoon, three weeks after he had said good-bye to Regan,becalmedcloseunderthelandonboardhisschooner,theAngelique.The

water was glassy, the smooth roll scarcely perceptible, and, in sheer ennui andoverplus of energy that likewise declined to be denied, he asked the captain, abreed,halfJamaicanegroandhalfIndian,toorderasmallskiffovertheside.

“LookslikeImightshootaparrotoramonkeyorsomething,”heexplained,searchingthejungle-cladshore,halfamileaway,throughatwelve-powerZeissglass.

“Most problematic, sir, that you are bitten by a labarri, which is deadlyviper in these parts,” grinned the breed skipper and owner of the Angelique,who,fromhisJamaicafatherhadinheritedthegiftoftongues.

ButFranciswasnottobedeterred;foratthemoment,throughhisglass,hehad picked out, first, in the middle ground, a white hacienda, and second, onthe beach, a white-clad woman’s form, and further, had seen that she wasscrutinisinghimandtheschoonerthroughapairofbinoculars.

“Put the skiff over, skipper,” he ordered. “Who lives around here?—whitefolks?”

“The Enrico Solano family, sir,” was the answer. “My word, they areimportant gentlefolk, old Spanish, and they own the entire general landscapefrom the sea to the Cordilleras and half of the Chiriqui Lagoon as well. Theyare very poor, most powerful rich ... in landscape—and they are prideful andfieryascayennepepper.”

AsFrancis,inthetinyskiff,rowedshoreward,theskipper’salerteyenotedthat he had neglected to take along either rifle or shotgun for the contemplatedparrot or monkey. And, next, the skipper’s eye picked up the white-cladwoman’sfigureagainstthedarkedgeofthejungle.

StraighttothewhitebeachofcoralsandFrancisrowed,nottrustinghimselftolookoverhisshouldertoseeifthewomanremainedorhadvanished. In his mind was merely a young man’s healthy idea of encounteringabucolicyounglady,orahalf-wildwhitewomanforthatmatter,oratthebestaveryprovincialone,withwhomhecouldfoolandfunawayafewminutesofthe calm that fettered the Angelique to immobility. When the skiff grounded,hesteppedout,andwithonesturdyarmlifteditsnosehighenoughupthesand to fasten it by its own weight. Then he turned around. The beach to thejungle was bare. He strode forward confidently. Any traveller, on so strange ashore,hadarighttoseekinhabitantsforinformationonhisway—wastheideahewasactingout.

And he, who had anticipated a few moments of diversion merely, wasdiverted beyond his fondest expectations. Like a jack-in-the-box, the woman,who, in the flash of vision vouchsafed him demonstrated that she was a girl-woman,ripelymatureandyetmostlygirl,sprangoutofthegreenwallof

jungle and with both hands seized his arm. The hearty weight of grip in theseizure surprised him. He fumbled his hat off with his free hand and bowed tothestrangewomanwiththeimperturbablenessofaMorgan,NewYorktrainedand disciplined to be surprised at nothing, and received another surprise, orseveral surprises compounded. Not alone was it her semi-brunette beauty thatimpacted upon him with the weight of a blow, but it was her gaze, driven intohim, that was all of sternness. Almost it seemed to him that he must know her.Strangers,inhisexperience,neversolookedatoneanother.

Thedoublegriponhisarmbecameadraw,asshemutteredtensely:“Quick!Followme!”

Amomentheresisted.Sheshookhiminthefervorofherdesire,andstrove to pull him toward her and after her. With the feeling that it was someunusualgame,suchasonemightmeetupwithonthecoastofCentralAmerica,heyielded,smilingly,scarcelyknowingwhetherhefollowedvoluntarilyorwasbeingdraggedintothejunglebyherimpetuosity.

“Do as I do,” she shot back at him over her shoulder, by this time leadinghimwithonehandofhersinhis.

He smiled and obeyed, crouching when she crouched, doubling over whenshe doubled, while memories of John Smith and Pocahontas glimmered up inhisfancy.

Abruptly she checked him and sat down, her hand directing him to sitbesideherereshereleasedhim,andpressedittoherheartwhileshepanted:

“ThankGod!Oh,mercifulVirgin!”

In imitation, such having been her will of him, and such seeming to be thecue of the game, he smilingly pressed his own hand to his heart, although hecalledneitheronGodnortheVirgin.

“Won’tyoueverbeserious?”sheflashedathim,notinghisaction.

AndFranciswasimmediatelyandprofoundly,aswellasnaturally,serious.“Mydearlady...”hebegan.

Butanabruptgesturecheckedhim;and,withgrowingwonder,hewatchedher bend and listen, and heard the movement of bodies padding down somerunwayseveralyardsaway.

With a soft warm palm pressed commandingly to his to be silent, she lefthim with the abruptness that he had already come to consider as customarywithher,andslippedawaydowntherunway.Almosthewhistledwithastonishment. He might have whistled it, had he not heard her voice, notdistant,inSpanish,sharplyinterrogatemenwhoseSpanishvoices,half-

humbly,half-insistentlyandhalf-rebelliously,answeredher.

He heard them move on, still talking, and, after five minutes of deadsilence,heardhercallforhimperemptorilytocomeout.

“Gee! I wonder what Regan would do under such circumstances!” hesmiledtohimselfasheobeyed.

He followed her, no longer hand in hand, through the jungle to the beach.When she paused, he came beside her and faced her, still under the impress ofthefantasywhichpossessedhimthatitwasagame.

“Tag!” he laughed, touching her on the shoulder. “Tag!” he reiterated.“You’reIt!”

Theangerofherblazingdarkeyesscorchedhim.

“You fool!” she cried, lifting her finger with what he considered undueintimacytohistoothbrushmoustache.“Asifthatcoulddisguiseyou!”

“But my dear lady...” he began to protest his certain unacquaintance withher.

Herretort,whichbrokeoffhisspeech,wasasunrealandbizarreaseverything else which had gone before. So quick was it, that he failed to seewhence the tiny silver revolver had been drawn, the muzzle of which was notpresentedmerelytowardhisabdomen,butpressedcloselyagainstit.

“Mydearlady...”hetriedagain.

“I won’t talk with you,” she shut him off. “Go back to your schooner, andgo away....” He guessed the inaudible sob of the pause, ere she concluded,“Forever.”

This time his mouth opened to speech that was aborted on his lips by thestiffthrustofthemuzzleoftheweaponintohisabdomen.

“If you ever come back—the Madonna forgive me—I shall shoot myself.”“GuessI’dbettergo,then,”heutteredairily,asheturnedtotheskiff,

towardwhichhewalkedinstatelyembarrassment,half-filledwithlaughterfor

himselfandfortheridiculousandincomprehensiblefigurehewascutting.

Endeavoring to retain a last shred of dignity, he took no notice that she hadfollowed him. As he lifted the skiff’s nose from the sand, he was aware that afaint wind was rustling the palm fronds. A long breeze was darkening thewater close at hand, while, far out across the mirrored water the outlying keysofChiriquiLagoonshimmeredlikeamirageabovethedark-crispingwater.

A sob compelled him to desist from stepping into the skiff, and to turn hishead.Thestrangeyoungwoman,revolverdroppedtoherside,wascrying.His

step back to her was instant, and the touch of his hand on her arm wassympathetic and inquiring. She shuddered at his touch, drew away from him,and gazed at him reproachfully through her tears. With a shrug of shoulders tohermanymoodsandofsurrendertotheincomprehensiblenessofthesituation,hewasabouttoturntotheboat,whenshestoppedhim.

“At least you...” she began, then faltered and swallowed, “you might kissmegood-bye.”

She advanced impulsively, with outstretched arms, the revolver danglingincongruously from her right hand. Francis hesitated a puzzled moment, thengathered her in to receive an astounding passionate kiss on his lips ere shedroppedherheadonhisshoulderinabreakdownoftears.Despitehisamazement he was aware of the revolver pressing flat-wise against his backbetween the shoulders. She lifted her tear-wet face and kissed him again andagain,andhewonderedtohimselfifhewereacadformeetingherkisseswithalmostequalandfullyasmysteriousimpulsiveness.

With a feeling that he did not in the least care how long the tender episodemight last, he was startled by her quick drawing away from him, as anger andcontemptblazedbackinherface,andasshemenacinglydirectedhimwiththerevolvertogetintotheboat.

He shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he could not say no to a lovelylady,andobeyed,sittingtotheoarsandfacingherashebeganrowingaway.

“The Virgin save me from my wayward heart,” she cried, with her freehand tearing a locket from her bosom, and, in a shower of golden beads,flingingtheornamentintothewaterwaymidwaybetweenthem.

From the edge of the jungle he saw three men, armed with rifles, runtowardherwhereshehadsunkdowninthesand.Inthemidstofliftingherup,they caught sight of Francis, who had begun rowing a strong stroke. Over hisshoulder he glimpsed the Angelique, close hauled and slightly heeling, cuttingthrough the water toward him. The next moment, one of the trio on the beach,a bearded elderly man, was directing the girl’s binoculars on him. And themomentafter,droppingtheglasses,hewastakingaimwithhisrifle.

The bullet spat on the water within a yard of the skiff’s side, and Francissaw the girl spring to her feet, knock up the rifle with her arm, and spoil thesecond shot. Next, pulling lustily, he saw the men separate from her to sighttheir rifles, and saw her threatening them with the revolver into lowering theirweapons.

The Angelique, thrown up into the wind to stop way, foamed alongside,and with an agile leap Francis was aboard, while already, the skipper puttingthewheelup,theschoonerwaspayingoffandfilling.Withboyishzest,

Francis wafted a kiss of farewell to the girl, who was staring toward him, andsawhercollapseontheshouldersofthebeardedelderlyman.

“Cayenne pepper, eh—those damned, horrible, crazy-proud Solanos,” thebreedskipperflashedatFranciswithwhiteteethoflaughter.

“Just bugs—clean crazy, nobody at home,” Francis laughed back, as hesprangtotherailtowaftfurtherkissestothestrangedamsel.

Beforethelandwind,theAngeliquemadetheouterrimofChiriquiLagoon and the Bull and Calf, some fifty miles farther along on the rim, bymidnight,whentheskipperhovetotowaitfordaylight.Afterbreakfast,rowed by a Jamaica negro sailor in the skiff, Francis landed to reconnoiter onthe Bull, which was the larger island and which the skipper had told him hemight find occupied at that season of the year by turtle-catching Indians fromthemainland.

And Francis very immediately found that he had traversed not merelythirtydegreesoflatitudefromNewYorkbutthirtyhundredyears,orcenturiesforthatmatter,fromthelastwordofcivilisationtoalmostthefirstwordoftheprimeval.Naked,exceptforbreech-cloutsofgunny-sacking,armedwithcruelly heavy hacking blades of machetes, the turtle-catchers were swift inprovingthemselvesarrantbeggarsanddangerousman-killers.TheBullbelonged to them, they told him through the medium of his Jamaican sailor’sinterpreting; but the Calf, which used to belong to them for the turtle seasonnowwaspossessedbyamadlyimpossibleGringo,whosereckless,dominating ways had won from them the respect of fear for a two-leggedhumancreaturewhowasmorefearfulthanthemselves.

WhileFrancis,forasilverdollar,dispatchedoneofthemwithamessageto the mysterious Gringo that he desired to call on him, the rest of themclustered about Francis’ skiff, whining for money, glowering upon him, andeven impudently stealing his pipe, yet warm from his lips, which he had laidbeside him in the sternsheets. Promptly he had laid a blow on the ear of thethief, and the next thief who seized it, and recovered the pipe. Machetes outand sun-glistening their clean-slicing menace, Francis covered and controlledthe gang with an automatic pistol; and, while they drew apart in a group andwhispered ominously, he made the discovery that his lone sailor-interpreterwasaweakbrotherandreceivedhisreturnedmessenger.

The negro went over to the turtle-catchers and talked with a friendlinessand subservience, the tones of which Francis did not like. The messengerhandedhimhisnote,acrosswhichwasscrawledinpencil:

“Vamos.”

“GuessI’llhavetogoacrossmyself,”Francistoldthenegrowhomhehad

beckonedbacktohim.

“Better be very careful and utmostly cautious, sir,” the negro warned him.“These animals without reason are very problematically likely to act mostunreasonably,sir.”

“Getintotheboatandrowmeover,”Franciscommandedshortly.

“No, sir, I regret much to say, sir,” was the black sailor’s answer. “I signedon, sir, as a sailor to Captain Trefethen, but I didn’t sign on for no suicide, andI can’t see my way to rowin’ you over, sir, to certain death. Best thing we cando is to get out of this hot place that’s certainly and without peradventure of adoubtgoin’togethotterforusifweremain,sir.”

In huge disgust and scorn Francis pocketed his automatic, turned his backon the sacking-clad savages, and walked away through the palms. Where agreat boulder of coral rock had been upthrust by some ancient restlessness ofthe earth, he came down to the beach. On the shore of the Calf, across thenarrow channel, he made out a dinghy drawn up. Drawn up on his own sidewas a crank-looking and manifestly leaky dugout canoe. As he tilted the waterout of it, he noticed that the turtle-catchers had followed and were peering athim from the edge of the coconuts, though his weak-hearted sailor was not insight.

Topaddleacrossthechannelwasamatterofmoments,butscarcelywasheonthebeachoftheCalfwhenfurtherinhospitalitygreetedhimonthepartofatall, barefooted young man, who stepped from behind a palm, automatic pistolinhand,andshouted:

“Vamos!Getout!Scut!”

“Yegodsandlittlefishes!”Francisgrinned,half-humorously,half-seriously. “A fellow can’t move in these parts without having a gun shoved inhisface.Andeverybodysaysgetoutpronto.”

“Nobody invited you,” the stranger retorted. “You’re intruding. Get off myisland.I’llgiveyouhalfaminute.”

“I’m getting sore, friend,” Francis assured him truthfully, at the same time,out of the corner of his eye, measuring the distance to the nearest palm-trunk.“Everybody I meet around here is crazy and discourteous, and peevishlyanxious to be rid of my presence, and they’ve just got me feeling that waymyself.Besides,justbecauseyoutellmeit’syourislandisnoproof——”

Theswiftrushhemadetotheshelterofthepalmlefthissentenceunfinished. His arrival behind the trunk was simultaneous with the arrival of abulletthatthuddedintotheothersideofit.

“Now,justforthat!”hecalledout,ashecenteredabulletintothetrunkof

theotherman’spalm.

Thenextfewminutestheyblazedaway,orwaitedforcalculatedshots,andwhen Francis’ eighth and last had been fired, he was unpleasantly certain thathe had counted only seven shots for the stranger. He cautiously exposed partofhissun-helmet,heldinhishand,andhaditperforated.

“Whatgunareyouusing?”heaskedwithcoolpoliteness.“Colt’s,”cametheanswer.

Francissteppedboldlyintotheopen,saying:“Thenyou’reallout.Icounted‘em.Eight.Nowwecantalk.”

The stranger stepped out, and Francis could not help admiring the finefigure of him, despite the fact that a dirty pair of canvas pants, a cottonundershirt,andafloppysombreroconstitutedhisgarmenting.Further,itseemed he had previously known him, though it did not enter his mind that hewaslookingatareplicaofhimself.

“Talk!”thestrangersneered,throwingdownhispistolanddrawingaknife.“Nowwe’lljustcutoffyourears,andmaybescalpyou.”

“Gee!You’resweet-naturedandgentleanimalsinthisneckofthewoods,”Francis retorted, his anger and disgust increasing. He drew his own huntingknife, brand new from the shop and shining. “Say, let’s wrestle, and cut outthisten-twenty-and-thirtyknifestuff.”

“Iwantyourears,”thestrangeransweredpleasantly,asheslowlyadvanced.

“Sure. First down, and the man who wins the fall gets the other fellow’sears.”

“Agreed.”Theyoungmaninthecanvastrouserssheathedhisknife.

“Too bad there isn’t a moving picture camera to film this,” Francis girded,sheathing his own knife. “I’m sore as a boil. I feel like a heap bad Injun.Watchout!I’mcominginarush!Anywayandeverywayforthefirstfall!”

Actionandwordwenttogether,andhisgloriousrushendedignominiously,for the stronger, apparently braced for the shock, yielded the instant theirbodies met and fell over on his back, at the same time planting his foot inFrancis’ abdomen and, from the back purchase on the ground, transformingFrancis’rushintoawildforwardsomersault.

The fall on the sand knocked most of Francis’ breath out of him, and theflying body of his foe, impacting on him, managed to do for what little breathwas left him. As he lay speechless on his back, he observed the man on top ofhimgazingdownathimwithsuddencuriosity.

“Whatd’youwanttowearamustachefor?”thestrangermuttered.

“Go on and cut ‘em off,” Francis gasped, with the first of his returningbreath. “The ears are yours, but the mustache is mine. It is not in the bond.Besides,thatfallwasstraightjiujiutsu.”

“You said ‘anyway and everyway for the first fall,’” the other quotedlaughingly.“Asforyourears,keepthem.Ineverintendedtocutthemoff,andnow that I look at them closely the less I want them. Get up and get out ofhere. I’ve licked you. Vamos! And don’t come sneaking around here again!Git!Scut!”

In greater disgust than ever, to which was added the humiliation of defeat,Francisturneddowntothebeachtowardhiscanoe.

“Say, Little Stranger, do you mind leaving your card?” the victor calledafterhim.

“Visiting cards and cut-throating don’t go together,” Francis shot backacross his shoulder, as he squatted in the canoe and dipped his paddle. “Myname’sMorgan.”

Surprise and startlement were the stranger’s portion, as he opened hismouthtospeak,thenchangedhismindandmurmuredtohimself,“Samestock

—nowonderwelookalike.”

Still in the throes of disgust, Francis regained the shore of the Bull, satdown on the edge of the dugout, filled and lighted his pipe, and gloomilymeditated. Crazy, everybody, was the run of his thought. Nobody acts withreason. “I’d like to see old Regan try to do business with these people. They’dgethisears.”

Could he have seen, at that moment, the young man of the canvas pantsand of familiar appearance, he would have been certain that naught but lunacyresided in Latin America; for the young man in question, inside a grass-thatched hut in the heart of his island, grinning to himself as he uttered aloud,“I guess I put the fear of God into that particular member of the Morganfamily,” had just begun to stare at a photographic reproduction of an oilpaintingonthewalloftheoriginalSirHenryMorgan.

“Well, Old Pirate,” he continued grinning, “two of your latest descendantscame pretty close to getting each other with automatics that would make yourantediluvianhorse-pistolslooklikethirtycents.”

He bent to a battered and worm-eaten sea-chest, lifted the lid that wasmonogramedwithan“M,”andagainaddressedtheportrait:

“Well, old pirate Welshman of an ancestor, all you’ve left me is the olddudsandafacethatlookslikeyours.AndIguess,ifIwasreallyfiredup,I

couldplayyourPort-au-Princestuntaboutaswellasyouplayedityourself.”

A moment later, beginning to dress himself in the age-worn and moth-eaten garments of the chest, he added: “Well, here’s the old duds on my back.Come, Mister Ancestor, down out of your frame, and dare to tell me a point oflooksinwhichwediffer.”

Clad in Sir Henry Morgan’s ancient habiliments, a cutlass strapped onaround the middle and two flintlock pistols of huge and ponderous designthrust into his waist-scarf, the resemblance between the living man and thepictured semblance of the old buccaneer who had been long since resolved todust,wasstriking.

“Backtobackagainstthemainmast,Heldatbaytheentirecrew”

As the young man, picking the strings of a guitar, began to sing the oldbuccaneer rouse, it seemed to him that the picture of his forebear faded intoanotherpictureandthathesaw:

The old forebear himself, back to a mainmast, cutlass out and flashing,facing a semi-circle of fantastically clad sailor cutthroats, while behind him,on the opposite side of the mast, another similarly garbed and accoutred man,with cutlass flashing, faced the other semi-circle of cutthroats that completedtheringaboutthemast.

The vivid vision of his fancy was broken by the breaking of a guitar-stringwhich he had thrummed too passionately. And in the sharp pause of silence, itseemed that a fresh vision of old Sir Henry came to him, down out of theframe and beside him, real in all seeming, plucking at his sleeve to lead himoutofthehutandwhisperingaghostlyrepetitionof:

“BacktobackagainstthemainmastHeldatbaytheentirecrew.”

The young man obeyed his shadowy guide, or some prompting of his ownprofound of intuition, and went out the door and down to the beach, where,gazing across the narrow channel, on the beach of the Bull, he saw his lateantagonist, backed up against the great boulder of coral rock, standing off anattack of sack-clouted, machete-wielding Indians with wide sweeping strokesofadriftwoodtimber.

And Francis, in extremity, swaying dizzily from the blow of a rock on hishead, saw the apparition, that almost convinced him he was already dead andin the realm of the shades, of Sir Henry Morgan himself, cutlass in hand,rushing up the beach to his rescue. Further, the apparition, brandishing thecutlassandlayingoutIndiansrightandleft,wasbellowing:

“Backtobackagainstthemainmast,Heldatbaytheentirecrew.”

As Francis’ knees gave under him and he slowly crumpled and sank down,he saw the Indians scatter and flee before the onslaught of the weird piratefigureandheardtheircriesof:

“Heavenhelpus!”“TheVirginprotectus!”“It’stheghostofoldMorgan!”

Francis next opened his eyes inside the grass hut in the midmost center ofthe Calf. First, in the glimmering of sight of returning consciousness, hebeheld the pictured lineaments of Sir Henry Morgan staring down at him fromthe wall. Next, it was a younger edition of the same, in three dimensions ofliving, moving flesh, who thrust a mug of brandy to his lips and bade himdrink. Francis was on his feet ere he touched lips to the mug; and both he andthe stranger man, moved by a common impulse, looked squarely into eachother’seyes,glancedatthepictureonthewallandtouchedmugsinasalutetothepictureandtoeachothereretheydrank.

“YoutoldmeyouwereaMorgan,”thestrangersaid.“IamaMorgan.Thatmanonthewallfatheredmybreed.Yourbreed?”

“The old buccaneer’s,” Francis returned. “My first name is Francis. Andyours?”

“Henry—straightfromtheoriginal.Wemustberemotecousinsorsomethingorother.I’mafterthefoxyoldniggardlyoldWelshman’sloot.”

“So’m I,” said Francis, extending his hand. “But to hell with sharing.”“Theoldbloodtalksinyou,”Henrysmiledapprobation.“Forhimtohave

whofinds.I’veturnedmostofthisislandupsidedowninthelastsixmonths,

and all I’ve found are these old duds. I’m with you to beat you if I can, but toput my back against the mainmast with you any time the needed call goesout.”

“That song’s a wonder,” Francis urged. “I want to learn it. Lift the staveagain.”

Andtogether,clankingtheirmugs,theysang:“Backtobackagainstthemainmast,

Heldatbaytheentirecrew”

CHAPTERIII

But a splitting headache put a stop to Francis’ singing and made him gladto be swung in a cool hammock by Henry, who rowed off to the Angeliquewith orders from his visitor to the skipper to stay at anchor but not to permitany of his sailors to land on the Calf. Not until late in the morning of thefollowing day, after hours of heavy sleep, did Francis get on his feet andannouncethathisheadwasclearagain.

“I know what it is—got bucked off a horse once,” his strange relativesympathised,ashepouredhimahugecupoffragrantblackcoffee.“Drinkthat down. It will make a new man of you. Can’t offer you much for breakfastexcept bacon, sea biscuit, and some scrambled turtle eggs. They’re fresh. Iguaranteethat,forIdugthemoutthismorningwhileyouslept.”

“That coffee is a meal in itself,” Francis praised, meanwhile studying hiskinsmanandeverandanonglancingattheportraitoftheirrelative.

“You’re just like him, and in more than mere looks,” Henry laughed,catching him in his scrutiny. “When you refused to share yesterday, it was oldSir Henry to the life. He had a deep-seated antipathy against sharing, evenwith his own crews. It’s what caused most of his troubles. And he’s certainlynever shared a penny of his treasure with any of his descendants. Now I’mdifferent. Not only will I share the Calf with you; but I’ll present you with myhalf as well, lock, stock, and barrel, this grass hut, all these nice furnishings,tenements, hereditaments, and everything, and what’s left of the turtle eggs.Whendoyouwanttomovein?”

“Youmean...?”Francisasked.

“Justthat.There’snothinghere.I’vejustaboutdugtheislandupsidedownandallIfoundwasthechesttherefullofoldclothes.”

“Itmusthaveencouragedyou.”

“Mightily. I thought I had a hammerlock on it. At any rate, it showed I’montherighttrack.”

“What’sthematterwithtryingtheBull?”Francisqueried.

“That’s my idea right now,” was the answer, “though I’ve got another cluefor over on the mainland. Those old-timers had a way of noting down theirlatitudeandlongitudewholedegreesoutoftheway.”

“Ten North and Ninety East on the chart might mean Twelve North andNinety-two East,” Francis concurred. “Then again it might mean Eight Northand Eighty-eight East. They carried the correction in their heads, and if theydied unexpectedly, which was their custom, it seems, the secret died withthem.”

“I’vehalfanotiontogoovertotheBullandchasethoseturtle-catchers

backtothemainland,”Henrywenton.“AndthenagainI’dalmostliketotacklethemainlandcluefirst.Isupposeyou’vegotastockofclues,too?”

“Surething,”Francisnodded.“Butsay,I’dliketotakebackwhatIsaidaboutnotsharing.”

“Saytheword,”theotherencouraged.“ThenIdosayit.”

Their hands extended and gripped in ratification.“MorganandMorganstrictlylimited,”chortledFrancis.

“Assets, the whole Caribbean Sea, the Spanish Main, most of CentralAmerica, one chest full of perfectly no good old clothes, and a lot of holes intheground,”Henryjoinedintheother’shumor.“Liabilities,snake-bite,thievingIndians,malaria,yellowfever——”

“Andprettygirlswithahabitofkissingtotalstrangersonemoment,andofsticking up said total strangers with shiny silver revolvers the next moment,”Francis cut in. “Let me tell you about it. Day before yesterday, I rowed ashoreover on the mainland. The moment I landed, the prettiest girl in the worldpounced out upon me and dragged me away into the jungle. Thought she wasgoing to eat me or marry me. I didn’t know which. And before I could findout, what’s the pretty damsel do but pass uncomplimentary remarks on mymustacheandchasemebacktotheboatwitharevolver.Toldmetobeatitandnevercomeback,orwordstothateffect.”

“Whereaboutsonthemainlandwasthis?”Henrydemanded,withatenseness which Francis, chuckling his reminiscence of the misadventure, didnotnotice.

“Down toward the other end of Chiriqui Lagoon,” he replied. “It was thestamping ground of the Solano family, I learned; and they are a red pepperyfamily, as I found out. But I haven’t told you all. Listen. First she dragged meinto the vegetation and insulted my mustache; next she chased me to the boatwithadrawnrevolver;andthenshewantedtoknowwhyIdidn’tkissher.Canyoubeatthat?”

“And did you?” Henry demanded, his hand unconsciously clinching by hisside.

“What could a poor stranger in a strange land do? It was some armful ofprettygirl——”

The next fraction of a second Francis had sprung to his feet and blockedbeforehisjawacrushingblowofHenry’sfist.

“I...Ibegyourpardon,”Henrymumbled,andslumpeddownonthe

ancientseachest.“I’mafool,Iknow,butI’llbehangedifIcanstandfor

——”

“Thereyougoagain,”Francisinterruptedresentfully.“Ascrazyaseverybodyelseinthiscrazycountry.Onemomentyoubandageupmycrackedhead, and the next moment you want to knock that same head clean off of me.As bad as the girl taking turns at kissing me and shoving a gun into mymidrif.”

“That’sright,fireaway,Ideserveit,”Henryadmittedruefully,butinvoluntarily began to fire up as he continued with: “Confound you, that wasLeoncia.”

“What if it was Leoncia? Or Mercedes? Or Dolores? Can’t a fellow kiss apretty girl at a revolver’s point without having his head knocked off by thenext ruffian he meets in dirty canvas pants on a notorious sand-heap of anisland?”

“When the pretty girl is engaged to marry the ruffian in the dirty canvaspants——”

“Youdon’tmeantotellme——”theotherbrokeinexcitedly.

“It isn’t particularly amusing to said ruffian to be told that his sweethearthasbeenkissingaruffiansheneversawbeforefromoffadisreputableJamaicanigger’sschooner,”Henrycompletedhissentence.

“And she took me for you,” Francis mused, glimpsing the situation. “Idon’t blame you for losing your temper, though you must admit it’s a nastyone.Wantedtocutoffmyearsyesterday,didn’tyou?”

“Yours is just as nasty, Francis, my boy. The way you insisted that I cutthemoffwhenIhadyoudown—ha!ha!”

Bothyoungmenlaughedinheartyamity.

“It’s the old Morgan temper,” Henry said. “He was by all the accounts apepperyoldcuss.”

“No more peppery than those Solanos you’re marrying into. Why, most ofthe family came down on the beach and peppered me with rifles on mydeparting way. And your Leoncia pulled her little popgun on a long-beardedold fellow who might have been her father and gave him to understand she’dshoothimfullofholesifhedidn’tstoppluggingawayatme.”

“It was her father, I’ll wager, old Enrico himself,” Henry exclaimed. “Andtheotherchapswereherbrothers.”

“Lovely lizards!” ejaculated Francis. “Say, don’t you think life is liable tobecomeatriflemonotonouswhenyou’remarriedintosuchapeaceful,dove-

like family as that!” He broke off, struck by a new idea. “By the way, Henry,since they all thought it was you, and not I, why in thunderation did they wantto kill you? Some more of your crusty Morgan temper that peeved yourprospectivewife’srelatives?”

Henrylookedathimamoment,asifdebatingwithhimself,andthenanswered.

“Idon’tmindtellingyou.Itisanastymess,andIsupposemytemperwastoblame.Iquarreledwithheruncle.Hewasherfather’syoungestbrother

——”

“Was?”interruptedFranciswithsignificantstressonthepasttense.

“Was, I said,” Henry nodded. “He isn’t now. His name was Alfaro Solano,andhehadsometemperhimself.TheyclaimtobedescendedfromtheSpanish conquistadores, and they are prouder than hornets. He’d made moneyinlogwood,andhehadjustgotabighenequenplantationstartedfartherdownthe coast. And then we quarreled. It was in the little town over there—SanAntonio. It may have been a misunderstanding, though I still maintain he waswrong. He always was looking for trouble with me—didn’t want me to marryLeoncia,yousee.

“Well, it was a hot time. It started in a pulqueria where Alfaro had beendrinking more mescal than was good for him. He insulted me all right. Theyhad to hold us apart and take our guns away, and we separated swearing deathand destruction. That was the trouble—our quarrel and our threats were heardbyascoreofwitnesses.