Satan. H. De Vere Stacpoole
full of stuff will do me,” said Ratcliffe, “and I have nearly a hundred and fifty in ready money and a letter of credit on the Lyonnaise at Havana for five hundred. I’ll trundle my stuff over if you’ll lend me a boat, and be back for luncheon. You’ll be off this evening, I suppose, and I can stay aboard here till you get the anchor up. It’s possible I might pick you up at Havana on the way back; but don’t worry about that. Of course all this depends on whether that fellow will take me. I’ll take the portmanteau with me and ask.”
He did not in the least see what was going on in Skelton’s mind.
“You will take your things with you in a boat, and if this—gentleman refuses to take you, what then?”
“I’ll come back.”
“Now I want to be quite clear with you, Ratcliffe,” said Skelton. “If you leave my ship like that—for nothing—at a whim and for disreputable chance acquaintances—absolute scowbankers—the worst sort—I want to be clear with you—quite, absolutely definite—I must ask you not to come back!”
“Well, I’m hanged!” said Ratcliffe, suddenly blazing out. “First you say go and then you say don’t! Of course that’s enough: you’ve practically fired me off your boat.”
“Do not twist my words,” said the other. “That is a subtle form of prevarication I can’t stand.”
“I think we had better stop this,” said Ratcliffe. “I’m going! If I don’t see you again. I’ll say goodby.”
“And please understand,” said the other, who was rather white about the mouth, “please understand—”
“Oh, I know,” said Ratcliffe. “Goodby!”
He dived below to the saloon and rang for his bedroom steward.
Burning with anger and irritation and a feeling that he had been sat upon by Skelton, snubbed, sneered at, and altogether outrageously used, he could not trust himself to do his own packing. He sat on his bunkside while the steward stuffed a portmanteau with necessaries, and as he sat the thought came to him of what would happen were Tyler to refuse to take him. He would have to take refuge on Palm Island. It was a comic opera sort of idea; yet, such was the state of his mind, he actually entertained it.
Skelton was no longer “Skelly,” but “that beast Skelton.” Then he tipped the steward and the chief steward, telling them that he was going for a cruise in that “yawl over there.” On deck he met Norton and Simmons and told them the same tale. Skelton had vanished to his cabin. He told the first and second officers that he had said goodby to his host and asked for a boat to be lowered.
“I’ll pick you up most likely at Havana,” said he to gloze the matter over. “I expect I’ll have a good time, but rather rough. I want to do some fishing.”
The whole thing seemed like a dream and not a particularly pleasant one. Embarked on this business now, he almost wished himself done with it. The yacht was comfortable, the cooking splendid; to satisfy any want, one had only to touch a bell. There were no bells on board the Sarah Tyler. A lavatory and a sort of bathroom invented by “Pap” were the only conveniences, and the bath was impracticable. It was “Pap’s” only failure, for the sea-cock connecting it with the outer ocean was so arranged or constituted that as likely as not it would let in the Caribbean before you could “stop it off.”
If Skelton now, at the last moment, had asked Ratcliffe to come down and have an interview, things might have been smoothed over, but Skelton was not the sort of man to make advances; neither, in his way, was Ratcliffe.
Meanwhile, Simmons was directing the lowering of a boat. The companionway was still down. The luggage was put in, and Simmons, seated by Ratcliffe in the stern seats, took the yoke lines. Not a sign of Skelton, not even a face at a porthole!
“Give way!” shouted Simmons.
As they drew up to the Sarah Tyler, Ratcliffe saw Satan leaning over the rail and watching them. Jude was nowhere visible.
“Hullo!” said Ratcliffe as they came alongside. “I’ve come back.”
“I was half-expectin’ you,” said Satan with a grin.
“Will you take me for that cruise right off?”
“Sure! That your dunnage?”
“Yes.”
Satan stepped to the cabin companionway and shouted down it.
“Jude!”
“Hullo!” came Jude’s voice.
“He’s come back!”
CHAPTER V
THE PORTMANTEAU
As Jude came on deck the portmanteau was being hoisted on board. Ratcliffe passed down a five-pound note to the boat’s crew, and then stood, waving to Simmons as the boat put away. Then, turning to Satan, he tried to discuss terms, but was instantly silenced by Jude and Satan. They would hear nothing of money. Used to sea changes and strange happenings, they seemed to think nothing of the business, and after the first words fell to talking together.
The trend of their talk induced in Ratcliffe a vaguely uncanny feeling. It was as though they had already discussed his coming on board and the storage of himself and his baggage, as though they had known by instinct that he would return. The size of the portmanteau affected Jude.
“You can’t keep that,” said Jude, giving the portmanteau a slight kick. “It’s a long sight too big. Say, what have you got in it?”
“Clothes.”
“Pajamas?”
“Yes, and lots of other things.”
Jude tilted back the old panama she was wearing and took her seat on the portmanteau. Her feet were bare, and she twisted her toes in thought as she sat for a moment turning matters over in her mind.
“You can stick the things in the spare locker,” said she at last. “You gonna have a gay old time if you keep this in the cabin, tumblin’ over it. Better empty her here an’ cart the stuff below.”
“Right!” said Ratcliffe. “But what shall I do with the portmanteau when it’s empty?”
“Heave her overboard,” said Jude.
“Shut your head!” said Tyler, suddenly cutting in. “What you talkin’ about? Heave yourself overboard!” Then to Ratcliffe, “She’s right, all the same; there’s no room for luggage. If you’ll help Jude to get the things below, I’ll look after the trunk. When you’ve done with the cruise you can get a bag to hold your things.”
Ratcliffe opened the portmanteau. The steward of the Dryad was an expert: in a past existence he had probably been a pack rat. In any given space he could have tucked away half as much again as any other ordinary mortal. But he certainly had no imagination, or perhaps he had been too busy to cast his eye overboard and see the manner of craft Ratcliffe was joining, and Ratcliffe had been far too much exercised in his mind about Skelton to notice what was being packed.
Jude on her knees helped.
“What’s this?” asked Jude, coming on a black satin lining.
“Confound the fool!” said Ratcliffe. “He needn’t have packed that: it’s a dinner jacket.”
“Mean to say you sit down to your dinner in a jacket?” Jade choked and snorted while Ratcliffe hurriedly, on his knees, hauled out the trousers and waistcoats that went with the garments.
“That’s the lining—it’s worn the other way about—I know it’s tomfoolery. Stick ’em all in one bundle—Lord! look at the shirts