And Chatfield suddenly shook his fist at the throbbing sound which
came in regular pulsations through the night.
"Never mind!" he said sneeringly. "We aren't at the North Pole
neither--I ain't a seafaring man, but I've a good idea of where we are!
And perhaps there won't be naught to take me off when it's daylight, and
perhaps there won't be no telegraphs near at hand, nor within a hundred
miles, and perhaps there ain't such a blessed person as that there
Marconi and his wireless in the world--oh, no! Just you wait, my fine
fellers--that's all!"
"He's not addressing us, Vickers," said Copplestone. "You're decidedly
better, Chatfield--you're quite better. The notion of revenge and of
circumvention has come to you like balm. But you'd a lot better tell us
who you're referring to, and why you were put ashore. Listen,
Chatfield!--there's property of your own on that yacht, eh? That it?
Come, now?"
Chatfield gave his questioner a look of indignant scorn. He stooped for
the kit-bag, picked it up, and turned away.
"I don't want to have naught to do with you," he remarked over his
shoulder. "You keep yourselves to yourselves, and I'll keep myself to
myself. If it hadn't been for what you blabbed out last night, them
ungrateful devils 'ud never have had such ideas put into their heads!"
As if he knew his way, Chatfield plodded heavily up the beach and was
lost in the darkness, and the three left behind stood helplessly staring
at each other.
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