"Nix! I know my way about these shoals blindfold, whereas you couldn't weather Monomoy safely in broad daylight. Get under the table and be a good dog—d'you hear?"
With a chuckle, Alan obediently stretched himself out on the deck.
"I say, Law! You seem pretty easy in your mind about this young woman below. Sure you ain't been stung twice?"
"Sure," Alan asserted with conviction.
"Well, I reckon you ought to know. But to me, she's the same that tried to send me to Davy Jones' locker. How did she get aboard here?"
"I fancy they chloroformed her, while she slept in that hotel in Portland. Whether or no, Rose woke up in a closed motor-car—bound and gagged, of course—and was brought aboard at Gloucester about midnight."
"Simple when you know how," Barcus commented. "Cuddle down, now, and I'll sing you to sleep." Unconsciousness like a cloud soon descended upon Alan's overwearied faculties. …
He awoke with a yawn and a shiver, in the gray of chill daybreak. A thick fog pressed heavily upon the face of the waters, and moisture beaded all things, even Alan's face and hands. Barcus stood at the wheel, reeling with weariness, his eyes half-closed In a face like a mask of fatigue.
