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As town and mole and harbour dropped astern, the Douro close-hauled and steered by Davis, Harman standing by the steersman, saw the helm going over and found they were heading north.

“And how about pickin’ up that girl?” asked Billy, “Coimbra don’t lay this way.”

“Oh, I reckon she’ll wait,” replied Davis.

“You’re givin’ her the good-bye?”

“Seems so,” said Davis.

Hannan chuckled. Then he lit a cigar. If girls chose to fall in love and trust chaps like Davis, it wasn’t his affair.

At sunrise he slipped down to see after some food. Davis heard him hammering down below, and knew that he was sampling the gold, he smiled with the full knowledge that it was there and that Billy couldn’t get away with it, when up from the saloon dashed Billy.

Like a man demented, he rushed forward, opened the foc’s’le hatch and shouted down it to the imprisoned Spaniards.

“Come up, you blighters,” cried Mr. Harman. Then he dived down, found emptiness and returned on deck.

He held on to the rail as he faced Davis.