"Lord!" he gasped, "t' think that everything we see, everything we find, is ours!"

Wilbur himself was not far behind him in eagerness. Somewhere deep down in the heart of every Anglo-Saxon lies the predatory instinct of his Viking ancestors--an instinct that a thousand years of respectability and taxpaying have not quite succeeded in eliminating.

A flight of six steps, bra.s.s-bound and bearing the double L of the bark's monogram, led them down into a sort of vestibule. From the vestibule a door opened directly into the main cabin. They entered.

The cabin was some twenty feet long and unusually s.p.a.cious. Fresh from his recollection of the grime and reek of the schooner, it struck Wilbur as particularly dainty. It was painted white with stripes of blue, gold and pea-green. On either side three doors opened off into staterooms and private cabins, and with each roll of the derelict these doors banged like an irregular discharge of revolvers. In the centre was the dining-table, covered with a red cloth, very much awry. On each side of the table were four arm chairs, screwed to the deck, one somewhat larger at the head. Overhead, in swinging racks, were gla.s.ses and decanters of whiskey and some kind of white wine. But for one feature the sight of the "Letty's" cabin was charming. However, on the floor by the sliding door in the forward bulkhead lay a body, face upward.

The body was that of a middle-aged, fine-looking man, his head covered with the fur, ear-lapped cap that Norwegians affect, even in the tropics. The eyes were wide open, the face discolored. In the last gasp of suffocation the set of false teeth had been forced half-way out of his mouth, distorting the countenance with a hideous simian grin.

Instantly Kitch.e.l.l's eye was caught by the glint of the gold in which these teeth were set.

"Here's about $100 to begin with," he exclaimed, and picking up the teeth, dropped them into his pocket with a wink at Wilbur. The body of the dead Captain was pa.s.sed up through the skylight and slid out on the deck, and Wilbur and Kitch.e.l.l turned their attention to what had been his stateroom.

The Captain's room was the largest one of the six staterooms opening from the main cabin.

"Here we are!" exclaimed Kitch.e.l.l as he and Wilbur entered. "The old man's room, and no mistake."

Besides the bunk, the stateroom was fitted up with a lounge of red plush screwed to the bulkhead. A roll of charts leaned in one corner, an alarm clock, stopped at 1:15, stood on a shelf in the company of some dozen paper-covered novels and a drinking-gla.s.s full of cigars. Over the lounge, however, was the rack of instruments, s.e.xtant, barometer, chronometer, gla.s.s, and the like, securely screwed down, while against the wall, in front of a swivel leather chair that was ironed to the deck, was the locked secretary.

"Look at 'em, just look at 'em, will you!" said Kitch.e.l.l, running his fingers lovingly over the polished bra.s.s of the instruments. "There's a thousand dollars of stuff right here. The chronometer's worth five hundred alone, Bennett & Sons' own make." He turned to the secretary.

"Now!" he exclaimed with a long breath.

What followed thrilled Wilbur with alternate excitement, curiosity, and a vivid sense of desecration and sacrilege. For the life of him he could not make the thing seem right or legal in his eyes, and yet he had neither the wish nor the power to stay his hand or interfere with what Kitch.e.l.l was doing.

The Captain put the blade of the axe in the c.h.i.n.k of the secretary's door and wrenched it free. It opened down to form a sort of desk, and disclosed an array of cubby-holes and two small doors, both locked.

These latter Kitch.e.l.l smashed in with the axe-head. Then he seated himself in the swivel chair and began to rifle their contents systematically, Wilbur leaning over his shoulder.

The heat from the coal below them was almost unbearable. In the cabin the six doors kept up a continuous ear-shocking fusillade, as though half a dozen men were fighting with revolvers; from without, down the open skylight, came the sing-song talk of the Chinamen and the wash and ripple of the two vessels, now side by side. The air, foul beyond expression, tasted of bra.s.s, their heads swam and ached to bursting, but absorbed in their work they had no thought of the lapse of time nor the discomfort of their surroundings. Twice during the examination of the bark's papers, Kitch.e.l.l sent Wilbur out into the cabin for the whiskey decanter in the swinging racks.

"Here's the charter papers," said Kitch.e.l.l, unfolding and spreading them out one by one; "and here's the clearing papers from Blyth in England.

This yere's the insoorance, and here, this is--rot that, nothin' but the articles for the crew--no use to us."

In a separate envelope, carefully sealed and bound, they came upon the Captain's private papers. A marriage certificate setting forth the union between Eilert Sternersen, of Fruholmen, Norway, and Sarah Moran, of some seaport town (the name was indecipherable) of the North of England. Next came a birth certificate of a daughter named Moran, dated twenty-two years back, and a bill of sale of the bark "Lady Letty,"

whereby a two-thirds interest was conveyed from the previous owners (a shipbuilding firm of Christiania) to Capt. Eilert Sternersen.

"The old man was his own boss," commented Kitch.e.l.l. "h.e.l.lo!" he remarked, "look here"; a yellowed photograph was in his hand the picture of a stout, fair-haired woman of about forty, wearing enormous pendant earrings in the style of the early sixties. Below was written: "S. Moran Sternersen, ob. 1867."

"Old woman copped off," said Kitch.e.l.l, "so much the better for us; no heirs to put in their gab; an'--hold hard--steady all--here's the will, s'help me."

The only items of importance in the will were the confirmation of the wife's death and the expressly stated bequest of "the bark known as and sailing under the name of the 'Lady Letty' to my only and beloved daughter, Moran."

"Well," said Wilbur.

The Captain sucked his mustache, then furiously, striking the desk with his fist:

"The bark's ours!" there was a certain ring of defiance in his voice.

"d.a.m.n the will! I ain't so c.o.c.k-sure about the law, but I'll make sure."

"As how?" said Wilbur.

Kitch.e.l.l slung the will out of the open port into the sea.

"That's how," he remarked. "I'm the heir. I found the bark; mine she is, an' mine she stays--yours an' mine, that is."

But Wilbur had not even time to thoroughly enjoy the satisfaction that the Captain's words conveyed, before an idea suddenly presented itself to him. The girl he had found on board of the bark, the ruddy, fair-haired girl of the fine and hardy Norse type--that was the daughter, of course; that was "Moran." Instantly the situation adjusted itself in his imagination. The two inseparables father and daughter, sailors both, their lives pa.s.sed together on ship board, and the "Lady Letty" their dream, their ambition, a vessel that at last they could call their own.

Then this disastrous voyage--perhaps the first in their new craft--the combustion in the coal--the panic terror of the crew and their desertion of the bark, and the st.u.r.dy resolution of the father and daughter to bring the "Letty" in--to work her into port alone. They had failed; the father had died from gas; the girl, at least for the moment, was crazed from its effects. But the bark had not been abandoned. The owner was on board. Kitch.e.l.l was wrong; she was no derelict; not one penny could they gain by her salvage.

For an instant a wave of bitterest disappointment pa.s.sed over Wilbur as he saw his $30,000 dwindling to nothing. Then the instincts of habit rea.s.serted themselves. The taxpayer in him was stronger than the freebooter, after all. He felt that it was his duty to see to it that the girl had her rights. Kitch.e.l.l must be made aware of the situation--must be told that Moran, the daughter, the Captain's heir, was on board the schooner; that the "kid" found in the wheel-box was a girl. But on second thought that would never do. Above all things, the brute Kitch.e.l.l must not be shown that a girl was aboard the schooner on which he had absolute command, nor, setting the question of Moran's s.e.x aside, must Kitch.e.l.l know her even as the dead Captain's heir. There was a difference in the men here, and Wilbur appreciated it. Kitch.e.l.l, the law-abiding taxpayer, was a weakling in comparison with Kitch.e.l.l, the free-booter and beach-comber in sight of his prize.

"Son," said the Captain, making a bundle of all the papers, "take these over to my bunk and hide 'em under the donkey's breakfast. Stop a bit,"

he added, as Wilbur started away. "I'll go with you. We'll have to bury the old man."

Throughout all the afternoon the Captain had been drinking the whiskey from the decanter found in the cabin; now he stood up unsteadily, and, raising his gla.s.s, exclaimed:

"Sonny, here's to Kitch.e.l.l, Wilbur & Co., beach-combers, unlimited. What do you say, hey?"

"I only want to be sure that we've a right to the bark," answered Wilbur.

"Right to her--ri-hight to 'er," hiccoughed the Captain. "Strike me blind, I'd like to see any one try'n take her away from Alvinza Kitch.e.l.l now," and he thrust out his chin at Wilbur.

"Well, so much the better, then," said Wilbur, pocketing the papers. The pair ascended to the deck.

The burial of Captain Sternersen was a dreadful business. Kitch.e.l.l, far gone in whiskey, stood on the house issuing his orders, drinking from one of the decanters he had brought up with him. He had already rifled the dead man's pockets, and had even taken away the boots and fur-lined cap. Cloths were cut from the spanker and rolled around the body. Then Kitch.e.l.l ordered the peak halyards unrove and used as lashings to tie the canvas around the corpse. The red and white flags (the distress signals) were still bound on the halyards.

"Leave 'em on. Leave 'em on," commanded Kitch.e.l.l. "Use 'm as a shrou'.

All ready now, stan' by to let her go."

Wilbur looked over at the schooner and noted with immense relief that Moran was not in sight. Suddenly an abrupt reaction took place in the Captain's addled brain.

"Can't bury 'um 'ithout 'is teeth," he gabbled solemnly. He laid back the canvas and replaced the set. "Ole man'd ha'nt me 'f I kep' 's teeth.

Strike! look a' that, I put 'em in upside down. Nev' min', upsi' down, downsi' up, whaz odds, all same with ole Bill, hey, ole Bill, all same with you, hey?" Suddenly he began to howl with laughter "T' think a bein' buried with y'r teeth upsi' down. Oh, mee, but that's a good grind. Stan' by to heave ole Uncle Bill over--ready, heave, an' away she goes." He ran to the side, waving his hat and looking over. "Goo'-by, ole Bill, by-by. There you go, an' the signal o' distress roun' you, H.

B. 'I'm in need of a.s.sistance.' Lord, here comes the sharks--look! look!

look at um fight! look at um takin' ole Bill! I'm in need of a.s.sistance.

I sh'd say you were, ole Bill."

Wilbur looked once over the side in the churning, lashing water, then drew back, sick to vomiting. But in less than thirty seconds the water was quiet. Not a shark was in sight.

"Get over t' the 'Bertha' with those papers, son," ordered Kitch.e.l.l; "I'll bide here and dig up sh' mor' loot. I'll gut this ole pill-box from stern to stem-post 'fore I'll leave. I won't leave a copper rivet in 'er, notta co'er rivet, dyhear?" he shouted, his face purple with unnecessary rage.

Wilbur returned to the schooner with the two Chinamen, leaving Kitch.e.l.l alone on the bark. He found the girl sitting by the rudderhead almost as he had left her, looking about her with vague, unseeing eyes.

"Your name is Moran, isn't it?" he asked. "Moran Sternersen."

"Yes," she said, after a pause, then looked curiously at a bit of tarred rope on the deck. Nothing more could be got out of her. Wilbur talked to her at length, and tried to make her understand the situation, but it was evident she did not follow. However, at each mention of her name she would answer:

"Yes, yes, I'm Moran."