Part 21 (1/2)

Senor Albaceda grunted pessimistically and climbed lumberingly on deck.

Landon threw himself back on the berth again. The Moor looked down at the child with a whimsical expression of pity which changed to a benignant smile as the object of it raised his eyes to his.

”The Sidi Jan has not heard the marvellous tale of the Bashaw of Tripoli and the Afreets of El Mut?” he submitted. ”If it is the Sidi's will, his servant will now take the opportunity of relating it to him?”

Little John Aylmer answered with an ecstatic chuckle of delight, and wriggled hurriedly into the encirclement of his friend's arm. Thus supported, he was able to defy the unsettling influence of the waves and give the whole of his attention to the taxing of the Moor's memory or, when this occasionally failed, his very competent imagination. The hours of the afternoon were pa.s.sed agreeably; the difficulties of making a meal without the ordinary appliances of civilization provided a certain amount of diversion when night fell, and afterwards sleep was paramount.

When the child woke he found the boat running slowly upon an even keel, and scrambling on deck was met by the view of a gla.s.sy swell surrounding her, but only visible to the extent of the few square yards which were enclosed in a veil of fog.

The skipper was at the wheel, and Ibrahim, the deck hand, and Muhammed were seated side by side in the bows. They did not peer into the fog--a hopeless task. They sat in a listening att.i.tude, exchanging a brief word now and again.

”It is certainly the drumming of a s.h.i.+p's screw,” decided the sailor, after a moment's silence. ”It is going at half speed, behind us.”

”Let us hope that Allah has not predestined us to be cut in twain,” said his companion. ”But from port, and very regularly, I hear the beat of breakers. The swell is rolling against a cliff.”

”A sh.o.r.e, not a cliff,” corrected the other. ”If my dead reckoning is right within a score of miles, we are opposite a beach of sand.”

Muhammed shook his head.

”Nay, listen to that thud. The crest of the comber meets something flat.

It does not roll, in slowly dying foam, upon a strand.”

Ibrahim shrugged his shoulders.

”In a fog we be all blind men,” he said pessimistically. ”Let us wait for the fulfilment of Allah's plan.”

They glanced questioningly upwards. As is common in these west coast fogs, the blanket of vapor was thin. Now and again a faint hint of blue above their heads seemed to presage a lifting of the mist; occasionally, indeed, the sun was to be seen vaguely as a round yellow ball of light, streaked by the slowly drifting scud. But the gray walls on each side of them remained unbroken. At the same time the beat of the breakers was perceptibly near.

Senor Albaceda lifted his head from the hatch and invited the maledictions of innumerable Holy Men upon the weather. He was understood to confess that he did not undertake to gauge their position within a hundred miles.

”If Allah's mercy would send us an offsh.o.r.e wind!” aspired the pious Ibrahim, and lo! with the word came its sudden fulfilment. The fog was rent by a gust, to disclose, not a couple of cable lengths distant, what appeared to be a smooth and painted crag of gray.

The two Moors addressed fervent appeals to the One G.o.d. The Spaniard, impartially apostrophizing the tormented of Purgatory and the celestially blessed to hasten to his a.s.sistance, delivered himself of the opinion that Fate had closed her iron hand upon them. Where else could they be than within a mile of the sea bastions of Casablanca?

That, did they observe, was a cruiser--nay, possibly a battles.h.i.+p by whose watch they had been observed without a shadow of a doubt. As the fog closed in again, he descended to the cabin where he could be heard loudly bewailing the situation to his pa.s.senger, whom he appeared to hold responsible for this and for a fairly extensive list of other inconveniences. The captain of the lateen _Esmeralda_ had obviously been warding off the chill influences of the fog by a liberal dose of _aguardiente_.

Landon lifted himself quickly to the deck. The mist was perceptibly lighter by now. A beam of sunlight pierced it from above and lit the _Esmeralda's_ deck. The gray wall was still unbroken landward, but seaward it thinned, lifted, rolled this way and that, and finally disclosed a s.h.i.+ning plain of blue. The central object in this, a couple of miles away, was a white, gleaming yacht.

Landon swore.

”_The Morning Star_--Van Arlen's boat, by G.o.d!” he cried. He made the helmsman a furious gesture. ”Into the fog again!” he shouted. ”Stick her nose into it, get out of this!”

”To beat out her timbers upon the harbor reef, or be swamped beneath the bows of a wars.h.i.+p!” screamed the skipper from the hatch. ”Never! Keep her in the light, son of accursed mothers! Do pa.s.sengers who have been born of leprous parents give orders aboard this vessel, or I, Concepcion Albaceda, to whom the law rightly adjudges powers of life and death?”

He came lurching heavily aft, waving a case bottle by the neck to give emphasis to his commands. The bewildered Ibrahim stared at him owlishly.

The next moment he gave a cry of alarm. Landon had tripped the captain's unsteady feet, and, aided by Muhammed, had taken him forward and flung him into the c.o.c.kpit. They closed the hatch, secured it, and came aft again. Imperiously Landon repeated his order.

The unfortunate sailor still hesitated. His compatriot took him firmly by the nape of the neck.

”Into the fog, child of indescribable unfaithfulness,” he commanded, ”or become immediately bait for sharks! Choose!”