Christopher, as I heard afterward. Then a Spanish cruiser
ran us down, at last, under a corner of a little island among the
Windwards, about thirty miles east of Tobago, where Clyde's
cleverness came to nothing.
It was growing twilight, we driving close off the low shores of the
island. The woods were dark above the shore, and half a mile out was
the black cruiser, with a pennon of smoke against the sky, and the
black water between. I went into Clyde's cabin and found him talking
to himself.
"We'll be scuttling her, Tom," he says.
With that he gave a jerk at the foot of his bunk, and the footboard
came off, and there underneath were four brown canvas bags tied up
with rope. Now, I never knew before that day that Clyde didn't keep
his money in a bank, same as any other civilised gentleman, and it
shows how little I knew about him, after all. He sat there holding up
eagles and double pesos to the lamplight, with his eyes shining and
his wrinkled old mouth smiling.
"What are you going to do with that?" I says, surprised at the sight
of it, and he kept on smiling.
"I guess you and I will take the shiners ashore," he says; "I'd give
you a writing, but it would do you no good, Tommy.
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