The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

as the outer door was opened, one sharp, deep, and incisive, the other drawling. The Fosters had arrived.

      III

      Conspiracy

      Jim rose as the four entered the room. Kitty Whiting—her cousin had called her Kitty and Jim henceforth thought of her as that—had with feminine magic removed all traces of tears. It was plain that she was not on excessively friendly terms with her uncle by marriage. She treated her cousin, a blood relation, more affably, though Jim formed a dislike to Newton Foster at first sight, an antipathy that he immediately wrestled with. He seemed about the same age as Jim, he was undeniably handsome with his black hair and dark eyes, he was more than merely well dressed in light summer clothes with belt, silk shirt, and buckskin shoes, while he carried himself with an easy grace and assured manner coupled with a politeness that could not be challenged. He wore a somewhat bored expression that heightened as he was introduced to Jim, an introduction that he recognized with an informal nod and a slight raising of the eyebrows.

      Stephen Foster was the prosperous, confident man of business, inclined to stoutness. He wore a dark coat and striped flannels and carried a Panama hat. There was some resemblance to his son, but the warfare of commercial life, won by the shrewdness stamped upon his face, had left its marks upon him. His mouth was hard, his lips thin, closing when he delivered himself of any opinion—evidently considered by him the final word—like the slot of a letter box. His eyes were those of a man who has not considered the means to an end, who has matched craft with craft, and learned to keep his own counsel. They were hard as agate, expressionless as the eyes of a dead fish, though there was plenty of life and determination in them. He was clean-shaven, like his son, and the lines of his jaw proclaimed stubbornness. There was something catlike about him, Jim fancied, studying him; an overcare of his hands, a furtive tucking in of his thin lips in a smile that was covert, that hinted at a cruel streak somewhere in his nature. He treated Jim as he might a man applying to him for manual labor, an attitude which helped to color Jim’s impressions.

      At the outset he showed his attitude toward his niece’s views with an attempt at tolerance and sympathy that the girl evidently resented. He refused her offer of cigars.

      “Changed my brand for a lighter one, my dear,” he said, selecting one from a leather case while his son lit a cigarette. “Now then, tell me everything.”

      “You know all that I do,” she said. “And I realize that you think me foolish in believing dad still alive. But I do. And now I have something definite to work upon. It was good of you to come over. If Mr. Lyman does not mind repeating what he has told Lynda and me, perhaps that will be the simplest way. I will only say that it has determined me to go to the island of which he has the position and where he landed. You are interested in the returns of the expedition,” she added with a slight curl of her lip. “I should like to know if you will join me.”

      “And me,” said the spinster quietly. Kitty Whiting slid her hand into her cousin’s. “You had no idea I should permit you to go without me?” the latter asked. The elder Foster put up his hand deprecatingly.

      “We are going too fast,” he said. “I imagined you wished for my advice, for a man’s advice in this matter.” The girl nodded noncommittally. “Now then, my man.”

      Jim swallowed his gorge and began somewhat grimly. The “my man” attitude nettled him. He was emphatically his own man and intended to remain so. Foster was not the type he would have chosen for employer under any circumstances. And he listened with an increasing incredulity he took scant pains to conceal. As for the son, Jim fancied he saw his assumed boredom enlivened with some interest as the tale advanced. Several times he noticed Newton Foster observing Kitty Whiting closely. When he had finished, Stephen Foster lit a fresh cigar and smoked for a moment or two.

      “Those figures, the position of the island,” he said, “you have them with you?”

      “They are at my room. I can give them to you approximately.”

      Foster shook his head.

      “Figures are tricky things, the foundation of success or failure. And approximate figures are like mortar that has got too much sand in it, a false foundation. Facts, facts, facts,” he pounded each word into his palm as if driving home the spikes of argument, “that’s what we are after. Then we apply common sense.

      “I have no desire to say anything derogatory against this young man’s character. I will simply say that we know nothing about it. He comes without references, to tell an interesting story. I am going to be frank, to discuss the matter in a businesslike way, to speak as if he were not present, to set aside all personality, to look at all sides of the question.

      “It would be quite possible, for instance, that someone accustomed to seafaring has seen the Golden Dolphin and gone aboard of her. Many must have done so, aside from her crew. Such a one, with the trained eyes of a sailor, would have no trouble in registering necessary details for an accurate description.

      “He sees—this person, you understand, is quite supposititious—he sees, or hears at second-hand in maritime circles, the account of the Golden Dolphin being overdue, coupled with accounts of its building, launching and the story—foolishly spilled to the newspapers against my protest at the time—of her ownership, the romance of her captain returning to the sea upon a quest for treasure.

      “This supposititious person later finds himself out of a job at a time when wages are ridiculously high and producers shutting down on production. Ships lie idle, commerce is at a standstill; the shelves and counters of the shops of the world are dusty, awaiting reorganization. He comes, this seafaring man, to Foxfield, spinning an interesting yarn to highly interested parties. Perhaps he looks for a reward; perhaps he smells a soft berth. Pardon me—” Again Foster lifted a deprecating hand. Jim Lyman had half risen from his chair, his hands clenching, his eyes blazing with indignation. Newton Foster looked on like a man at a comedy. Kitty Whiting was on her feet.

      “Uncle! Mr. Lyman is my guest, here in my house. You insult him and me.” Foster did not lose the urbanity with which he had greased his insinuation.

      “Tut, tut, my dear. I am speaking purely impersonally. I cast no aspersions upon Mr. Lyman. That is one side of the question. For the other, assuming that his story is correct in every detail, I can see that he brings no assurance of the success of such a madcap expedition as you propose. We have talked much of this over before, my dear. I can fully appreciate your desire to believe your father alive. I would not for a moment tear down your hopes if I felt they held any basis. As for the pearls—if we could be sure of finding this island and the ship, the chances that the treasure would be still aboard are to me infinitesimal. The expense would be great, the risk, from a business standpoint, far outweighing any possibility of profit. I am accustomed to looking at such things mathematically. I have made my money upon sound, logical bases of chance. I do not allow my peculiar interests to blind my commercial vision. If a similar situation was laid before me I should, in the light of common sense, proclaim it a wildcat scheme. If your father were alive he would long since have found some means of communication. I have already invested heavily in this enterprise and written it off as one of the few failures with which I have been concerned. I do not care to throw good money after bad. That is my reaction.”

      His own blood still hot, Jim found it impossible to listen quietly to this cold-blooded argument, though his own opinion had trended in the same general direction. But Stephen Foster’s thoughts were evidently centered upon the financial aspect alone. Captain Whiting he callously scored out of the affair. He thought only of his profit and loss columns, of the red ink figures that represented to him his share in the Golden Dolphin. He might present the facts in the inexorable light of logic, but it was unnecessary for him to be brutal. The cat had manifested itself. Jim felt the insincerity of the man as a dog scents a taint. The girl spoke coldly, mistress of her emotions, her face pale and set.

      “I can readily understand, Uncle, that there being no true relationship, no tie of blood between you and my father, you can the more easily consider his life ended. I can comprehend the hesitation with which you contemplate any suggestion of spending your money without a sure return in sight. I am doing this for love. If