The color flashed into her dark cheek, and her black eyes reflected some unexplained anger.  Beside her, leaning against the house wall, was the handle end of a broken oar.  Tunis chanced to mark that there was a streak of dull blue paint on it.

“You have sharp eyes.  Tunis Latham,” hissed the girl.  “Not all of the Lathams are too proud to walk with Eunez Pareta—­or too proud to think of her.  But you—­bah!”

She got up suddenly, turned her back upon him, and entered the cottage.  Tunis walked on, just a little puzzled.

Horry Newbegin sat on the rail of the schooner smoking, and evidently looking anxiously for the appearance of the skipper.  There was no smoke rising from the galley chimney.

“What’s the matter with cooky?” demanded Tunis briskly.

“The dratted Portygee’s gone off to Paulmouth.  He left word that he couldn’t sail with us this trip.”

“Then he’ll never sail on the Seamew again,” declared the skipper grimly.

“And that won’t bother him none,” said the boatswain gloomily.

“I’ll get breakfast for all hands,” said Tunis.  “I’m not above that.  Where are the hands?”

“As far as I know, Cap’n Tunis, they are where Johnny Lark is.  Haven’t shown up, and don’t mean to,” said Horry doggedly.

Tunis Latham cursed his delinquent crew soundly.  The rage which flamed into his eyes, added to the pallor of his face, made an ugly mask indeed.  It was not often that he gave way to such an outburst, but Horry had seen the same deadly anger displayed on occasion by Captain Randall Latham.

“Where’s Mr. Chapin?”

“He was here before you, Cap’n Tunis.  He’s gone up to town to see if he can drum up some hands.”

“Where’s ’Rion?”

“He says he’ll be here by the time you get ready to wheel the stuff aboard.”  And the old man pointed with his pipe-stem toward the open door of the shed.

“Ha!” ejaculated Tunis.  “Feared I’d set him to work, eh?  Well, they’re all dogs together—­the whole litter of ’em.  I’ll make the coffee.  Tell me when Mr. Chapin comes.  I suppose we can hire enough hands to get the freight aboard.”

“But we can’t work the schooner with three men, Cap’n Tunis; nor yet with four.”

“Don’t I know that?  I’ll get a crew if I have to shanghai them,” promised Tunis grimly.

Mason Chapin came along with half a dozen fellows after a while.  One was a negro who could cook.  But there was no breakfast worthy of the name served aboard the Seamew that morning.  They were late already in getting to work.

It was the middle of the forenoon before the schooner left port.  There was a crew, such as it was.  But Mason Chapin had been obliged to promise them extra pay to get them aboard the schooner at all.

When ’Rion Latham slipped aboard finally, half the loading of the cargo had been accomplished.  Tunis himself was keeping tally.  The skipper beckoned his cousin to him.