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“Down below, every man Jack of them,” he whispered back at Davis. “I can hear ’em snoring. Foc’s’le hatch first.”

He led the way to the foc’s’le hatch and closed it gently, turning at a stroke the foc’s’le into a prison. Then they came to the saloon hatch, stood and listened.

Not a sound.

“They’re all in the foc’s’le,” whispered Harman. “Just like Spaniards, ain’t it? No time to waste, we’ve gotta see the stuff’s here; give’s your matches.” He stepped down, followed by the other, reached the saloon, and struck a light.

Yes, the stuff was there, a sight enough to turn a stronger head than Harman’s, boxes and boxes on the floor and on the couch, evidently just brought on board and disposed of in a hurry, and all marked with the magic name: Juan Diaz.

Harman tried to lift one of them. It was not large, yet he could scarcely stir it. Then with eyes aflame and hammering hearts, they made up the companion way, closed the hatch, and, while Davis got the canvas on her, Harman stood by to knock the shackle off the anchor chain.