"The old man wants you," he explained brusquely, waving his hand aft as
though specifying the direction. "Come on, now."
"What does he want?"
"How the hell do I know! But let me tell you, his orders go on this
boat."
I preceded him along the narrow passage, utterly indifferent to the
threat in his manner, but still conscious that one hand gripped the
butt of his revolver. Without doubt the fellow had orders to be
vigilant, and, perhaps, would even welcome some excuse for violence. I
gave him none, however, hopeful that the approaching interview might
yield new information. The cabin was unoccupied, the table swung up
against the beams of the upper deck, the heavy chairs moved back
leaving a wide open space. The furnishings were rich, in excellent
taste, the carpet a soft, green Wilton; the hanging lamp quite ornate,
while a magnificent upright piano was firmly anchored against the butt
of the aftermast. It was a yacht-like interior, even to the sheet
music on the rack, and a gray striped cat dozing on one of the softly
cushioned chairs. Gazing about, I could scarcely realize this was an
abode of criminals, or that I was there a captive. It was the sudden
grip of my guard which brought the truth relentlessly home.
"This is no movin' picture show," he muttered.
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