Part 20

“That!” exclaimed Wilbur, pointing to the lump.

Moran's blue eyes were beginning to gleam.

“Yes, and do it before the Chinamen see you.”

“But--but I don't understand.”

Moran stepped to the quarterdeck, unslung the hammock in which Wilbur slept, and tossed it to him.

“Reeve it up in that; I'll pass you a line, and we'll haul it aboard. Godsend, those vermin yonder have got smells enough of their own without noticing this. Hurry, mate, I'll talk afterward.”

Wilbur went over the side, and standing as best he could upon the slippery carcass, dug out the lump and bound it up in the hammock.

“Hoh!” exclaimed Moran, with sudden exultation. “There's a lot of it. That's the biggest lump yet, I'll be bound. Is that all there is, mate?--look carefully.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Yes, yes; that's all. Careful now when you haul up--Hoang has got his eye on you, and so have the rest of them. What do you call it, anyhow? Why are you so particular about it? Is it worth anything?”

“I don't know--perhaps. We'll have a look at it, anyway.”

Moran hauled the stuff aboard, and Wilbur followed.

“Whew!” he exclaimed with half-closed eyes. “It's like the story of Samson and the dead lion--the sweet coming forth from the strong.”

The schooner seemed to swim in a bath of perfumed air; the membrane of the nostrils fairly prinkled with the sensation. Moran unleashed the hammock, and going down upon one knee examined the lump attentively.

“It didn't seem possible,” Wilbur heard her saying to herself; “but there can't be any mistake. It's the stuff, right enough. I've heard of such things, but this--but this--” She rose to her feet, tossing back her hair.

“Well,” said Wilbur, “what do you call it?”

“The thing to do now,” returned Moran, “is to get clear of here as quietly and as quickly as we can, and take this stuff with us. I can't stop to explain now, but it's big--it's big. Mate, it's big as the Bank of England.”

“Those beach-combers are right on to the game, I'm afraid,” said Wilbur. “Look, they're watching us. This stuff would smell across the ocean.”

“Rot the beach-combers! There's a bit of wind, thank God, and we can do four knots to their one, just let us get clear once.”

Moran dragged the hammock back into the cabin, and, returning upon deck, helped Wilbur to cut away the last tricing tackle. The schooner righted slowly to an even keel. Meanwhile the junk had set its one lug-sail and its crew had run out the sweeps. Hoang took the steering sweep and worked the junk to a position right across the “Bertha's” bows, some fifty feet ahead.

“They're watching us, right enough,” said Wilbur.

“Up your mains'l,” ordered Moran. The pair set the fore and main sails with great difficulty. Moran took the wheel and Wilbur went forward to cast off the line by which the schooner had been tied up to one of the whale's flukes.

“Cut it!” cried the girl. “Don't stop to cast off.”

There was a hail from the beach-combers; the port sweeps dipped and the junk bore up nearer.

“Hurry!” shouted Moran, “don't mind them. Are we clear for'ard--what's the trouble? Something's holding her.” The schooner listed slowly to starboard and settled by the head.

“All clear!” cried Wilbur.

“There's something wrong!” exclaimed Moran; “she's settling for'ard.” Hoang hailed the schooner a second time.

“We're still settling,” called Wilbur from the bows, “what's the matter?”

“Matter that she's taking water,” answered Moran wrathfully. “She's started something below, what with all that lifting and dancing and tricing up.”