"Oh, sure! Don't worry about me," responded Little Billy. "Turn in and get your sleep. I'm for the bunk, too--but I guess I'll read a bit before I turn the lamp down. Lord, don't I wish I owned a saloon!

Well, tomorrow we'll find the ambergris, and I'll have money enough to drink myself peacefully to death--providing that devil, Carew, hasn't been before us to this cheerful spot. Good night."

Clambering into his bunk, the little man composed himself to a pretense of reading.

Martin decided he would not trouble Little Billy with a recital of MacLean's outburst. The poor fellow's mind was feverish enough without being bothered with the old Scotchman's wild, nonsensical raving.

Martin knew the hunchback would consider gravely, and be disturbed, if he spoke. Little Billy apparently had some faith in Sails' mystical foresight.

In truth, Martin himself, was impressed and oppressed by the Scot's obscure hints of evil to come--they fitted so well with the wild and gloomy face of the volcano and the depressing fog. Martin was half ashamed of his dread of something he could not name; but he turned in standing, removing only his shoes and loosening his belt, before crawling into his bunk and drawing the blankets over him.

A strange hand grasping his shoulder brought Martin out of deep sleep to instant consciousness. The light still burned in the room, and his opening eyes first rested on the tin clock hanging on the wall opposite. It was one o'clock.

The hand that shook him belonged to MacLean. The old man was bending over him with the white face of one who has seen a ghost.

"He's gone!" he softly exclaimed, before Martin could frame a question.

Startled, Martin sat up and swung his legs outboard.

"What--Little Billy?" A glance showed him the upper bunk was empty.

"Aye--Billy," responded Sails. "_Och_, 'tis a bad night outdoors, lad--a thick, dark night. And Billy's gone. Didna' I see him in the dark, and wearing the black shroud, these months agone! He was feyed!

Yon mount is the de'il's home, and others----"

"What are you talking about?" interrupted Martin impatiently. "What nonsense! Isn't Little Billy on deck? Isn't he on watch?"

"On watch? Aye, who kens where he watches now? He's gone, I tell ye!"

hissed the old man fiercely. And then, apparently observing Martin's bewilderment, he went on: "He has disappeared from deck. _Och_, I can no say how! The Powers o' Darkness can no be seen through, and he was under the black shroud! I saw him at one bell when he came for'rd and routed me oot the galley where I was taking a wee spell.

"_Och_, 'tis a black, bad night the night. Ye canna' see your hand afore ye. And Billy went aft, and I leaned on the rail, and listened--listened, for I couldna' see. And I heard _It_! Aye, I kenned 'twas _It_, for 'twas no the soond o' the waves, nor the calling o' the birds, nor the splash o' anything that lives in the sea. I kenned it was _It_. Hadna' I seen the shroud? Soonded like an oar stroke. 'Twas the Prince o' Evil soonding his way, a-coming wi' his shroud. _Och_! I run aft to tell Billy, and I tell ye, lad, Little Billy was gone!"

MacLean leaned forward, grunting his words earnestly, his face working with superst.i.tious fear.

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Martin. "You make me tired with your eternal 'fey' business. Little Billy is somewhere around the deck--probably seeking you, this minute."

"He's gone!" reiterated Sails. "I searched, I tell ye! I got my lantern, and I looked all aboot the p.o.o.p, and all aboot the decks, clear for'rd, and I sang oot as loud as I could wi'oot rousing all hands--and no hide or hair o' Billy could I find. _Och_, he's gone, I tell ye, lad. Didna' I see him lying stark in the dark place, wi' the black shroud over him. The MacLeans ha' the sight, lad, and I am the seventh son."

"All right, all right! Don't chatter so loud, you'll awaken everybody," interrupted Martin. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and bent over and pulled on his shoes. "I'll go on deck with you, and of course Little Billy will give us the laugh."

But Martin was, in fact, a little bit impressed by the old sailmaker's earnest conviction. As he laced his shoes, a little superst.i.tious thrill tingled along his spine at the thought of _It_ plucking Little Billy from the deck and carrying him into the dark depths of the brooding mountain.

But that was nonsense, he immediately reflected, half angry with himself. By George! If he allowed that confounded volcano to affect him so, he would soon be as bad as old Sails! Still, he had better go on deck and take a look at Little Billy, and satisfy the old man. His watch was soon, anyway.

Martin was recalling the hunchback's nervousness a few hours previous; Little Billy was wrestling John Barleycorn. If he had disappeared as the sailmaker claimed, he had probably lost the bout and would be found in drunken sleep. There was whisky in the medicine-chest--no, he had the keys. Well, then the alcohol in the boatswain's locker.

"Was there anything unusual about Little Billy's manner when you saw him at one bell?" he asked MacLean.

"No, lad. I ken your thought," replied the other. "He'd no had a drop, though he was jumpy as a cat."

Martin was taken aback by Sails' shrewd guess. He tiptoed to the door.

"Come on," he whispered to Sails. "Don't make any noise. We don't want to disturb the others until we make sure Little Billy isn't on the job."

They stepped into the cabin, and Martin's first glance was toward the medicine-chest. It had not been disturbed. They went forward, through the cabin alleyway, toward the main deck. The boatswain's room opened off here.

Martin opened the door, half expecting to see the hunchback chatting with his bosom friend. But the room was dark, and the red giant was sleeping noisily. Then they opened the door at the end of the alleyway and stepped out on deck, Martin softly closing the door behind him.

Abruptly, Martin found himself isolated in a sea of murk. At that hour, the sun had dipped for its brief concealment beneath the horizon, and the fog, which had been a gray-brown curtain in daylight, was now an all-enshrouding cloak of blackness that rendered eyesight useless.

Literally, Martin could not see his hand before his face. Nor could he see the door to the cabin alleyway, that he had just closed, though he had stepped but a couple of paces away from it. Nor could he see Sails, though the latter stood but an arm's length distant. Sails's hoa.r.s.e whisper came through the gloom:

"Ye see the night, lad? _Och_, 'tis a night for evil!"

Martin shivered at the sound of Sails' dismal croaking. See the night!

He could see nothing. The other's voice came out of an impenetrable void. Above him, beneath him, all about him, was nothing but blackness, thick, clinging gloom. The Stygian, fog-filled night crushed, like a heavy, intangible weight; one choked for breath.

Martin felt like an atom lost in back immensity. He wanted to shout at the top of his voice. But what he did do was lift his voice gently, so the words would not arouse the sleepers in the cabin.

"Little Billy! Billy!" he called.

His call was swallowed up, smothered, by the night. He strained his ears. But the only answer was the eery cry of a night-flying gull and the deep moaning of the sea upon the rocks--that and the hoa.r.s.e, uneasy breathing of the invisible MacLean.

Martin was more than disturbed by that silence.

"Sails, who are the foc'sle hands who have this watch?" he said.

"Rimoa and Oomak," came MacLean's voice. "They were for'rd when I came aft for you."

Martin called again, along the decks.

"Rimoa! Oomak! For'rd there--speak up!"

The wailing voices of the night replied; not a word, not a footfall came out of the gloom to tell of stirring human life.

"Good Lord, they must all be asleep!" exclaimed Martin testily.

"Sails, where is that lantern you spoke of?"

"In the galley--I left it there," answered the sailmaker. "I will go fetch it."

He heard MacLean's retreating footsteps, uncertain and uneven, as the man felt his way forward. The diminishing sounds affected him strangely; he was suddenly like a little child affrighted by the dark.

The sinister night contained a nameless threat. The black wall that encompa.s.sed him, flouting his straining gaze, seemed peopled by rustlings and leering eyes. Abruptly, Martin decided to follow MacLean, instead of waiting for him.

He stepped out in the other's wake, as he thought. After a blundering moment, he fetched up against the ship's rail. He tacked away and b.u.mped into the after capstan, which stood in the middle of the deck.

He barked his shins there and swore aloud to relieve his surcharged feelings.

Then his groping hand encountered a little object, lying on top of the capstan, that checked his words instantly. It was a well-known article, one he had handled often, and recognized immediately he touched it--it was Little Billy's rubber tobacco-pouch. He fingered it apprehensively, staring about him. Why was Little Billy's pouch abandoned there on the capstan-head, this pocket companion of an inveterate smoker? Why, Little Billy must be near by! He called excitedly:

"Billy! Billy! Where are you?"

The night took his hail and returned its own sphinx-like reply. Martin stuffed the pouch into his pocket. He was distinctly uneasy, now, on the hunchback's account. Something had happened, he felt--some accident had happened to Little Billy. It was not like Little Billy to thus forsake his beloved s.h.a.g, his constant ally in his fight against the drink hunger. Had the poor devil succ.u.mbed after all? Had he deserted Nicotine for Barleycorn?