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jangled the engine room for another five knots . From the wing he could see the lights of the island.
    “Well, my fine Saint,” said Spar, “I’ll be coming back in a short time. You’ll know what hit you, never fear.”
    “What was that?” said a voice behind him.
    Spar turned and stared into the blue eyes of Peg Mannering. “Oh, er, nothing. Better get below, miss, it’s wet as all hell up here.”
    “Get below? Young Perry is getting drunk again. Can you do anything about it? You look . . . well . . .”
    Spar smiled. “If you want me to, I’ll try. But perhaps he’d be better off drunk in his cabin than bothering the deck.”
    “No, no. When he is drunk, he . . . Please do something about it, Captain. Mr. Perry gave you orders to that effect. Please.”
    “I can’t leave the bridge this minute, but I’ll be down shortly. This blow is heavier out here in the open sea and we’re still in close to land. Go below and I’ll—”
    “May I stay here, please?” said Peg Mannering.
    “Why, certainly, if you don’t mind the spray. If you wish, you can have my cabin.”
    Folston’s mincing voice sounded at the top of the ladder. “Certainly you can have his cabin, Peg. Certainly. I’m sure our jailbird would love it.”
    Spar whirled about and faced the dapper count.
    “Jailbird?” said Peg Mannering.
    “Certainly, haven’t you heard?” said Folston. “Larson told me when he came in from the ship. This fine convict knocked Larson’s teeth down his throat and threw him down the gangway just because he found Larson packing in the cabin.”
    “If I were you,” said Spar, stepping very close, “I would be very careful of what I said.”
    “Oh, I shall, I shall,” said Folston in mock terror. “Pray don’t frighten me, dear convict.”
    “Convict?” said Peg Mannering, groping along the rail, moving away from Spar.
    “From French Guiana,” said Folston. “Perhaps the French would like to see him. I believe he is very valuable down there in the labor camps.”
    “ Devil’s Island !” said Peg Mannering, nervously.
    Spar glared at them both. “Yes, Devil’s Island. Certainly. Why not? But right now, it so happens that you are on an American ship over which the French have no jurisdiction. My papers have never been revoked, I am still a master mariner—and I still command the Venture.
    “This ship may be the property of Frederick Perry and you may be all the kings and queens of the Continent. But right now you’re passengers under my care.
    “As for my right to be here, I’ve sailed these seas for years. I know them and they know me. And convict or no, the sea will let me pass. The sea isn’t waiting on judgment from spoiled, pampered fools.
    “As for your right here, you haven’t any whatever. This sea is my sea, not yours. Look at it tonight. Swinging by and whipping at us, trying to drag us down. It’s angry, but not at me. It’s angry because you have no right here. It’s trying to reach up and take you and drag you down into its blackness and swallow you up forever.
    “Now get below.”
    Peg Mannering stared, afraid, at Spar and then looked down at the white-capped sea, whose waves looked like oily mountains topped with the teeth of spray.
    “Get below,” said Spar.
    Folston smiled. “Very pretty, convict. Very pretty. We go because we don’t exactly enjoy the stink of a prison camp. Come along, Peg.”
    But Peg Mannering stayed where she was and shook her head. “No. I’m afraid I would rather stand here than watch Tom Perry.”
    Folston shrugged. “There’s no accounting for tastes,” and disappeared down the hatch.
    Spar turned his back on the girl and looked into the binnacle. The helmsman, who had heard Folston’s remarks, edged cautiously away. Spar gave him a scornful glance and went back to the wing.
    Peg Mannering, slicker wrapped tightly about her slender figure, watched him. She had never seen a man like Captain Spar. He was so definite in his actions,