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“Thank God,” whispered David; “perhaps she’ll sink us!”

But The Three Friends showed her heels to the revenue cutter, and so far as David knew hours passed into days and days into weeks. It was like those nightmares in which in a minute one is whirled through centuries of fear and torment. Sometimes, regardless of nausea, of his aching head, of the hard deck, of the waves that splashed and smothered him, David fell into broken slumber. Sometimes he woke to a dull consciousness of his position. At such moments he added to his misery by speculating upon the other misfortunes that might have befallen him on shore. Emily, he decided, had given him up for lost and married–probably a navy officer in command of a battle-ship. Burdett and Sons had cast him off forever. Possibly his disappearance had caused them to suspect him; even now they might be regarding him as a defaulter, as a fugitive from justice. His accounts, no doubt, were being carefully overhauled. In actual time, two days and two nights had passed; to David it seemed many ages.

On the third day he crawled to the stern, where there seemed less motion, and finding a boat’s cushion threw it in the lee scupper and fell upon it. From time to time the youth in the golf cap had brought him food and drink, and he now appeared from the cook’s galley bearing a bowl of smoking soup.

David considered it a doubtful attention.

But he said, “You’re very kind. How did a fellow like you come to mix up with these pirates?”

The youth laughed good-naturedly.

“They’re not pirates, they’re patriots,” he said, “and I’m not mixed up with them. My name is Henry Carr and I’m a guest of Jimmy Doyle, the captain.”

“The barkeeper with the derby hat?” said David.

“He’s not a barkeeper, he’s a teetotaler,” Carr corrected, “and he’s the greatest filibuster alive. He knows these waters as you know Broadway, and he’s the salt of the earth. I did him a favor once; sort of mouse-helping-the-lion idea. Just through dumb luck I found out about this expedition. The government agents in New York found out I’d found out and sent for me to tell. But I didn’t, and I didn’t write the story either. Doyle heard about that. So, he asked me to come as his guest, and he’s promised that after he’s landed the expedition and the arms I can write as much about it as I darn please.”

“Then you’re a reporter?” said David.

“I’m what we call a cub reporter,” laughed Carr. “You see, I’ve always dreamed of being a war correspondent. The men in the office say I dream too much. They’re always guying me about it. But, haven’t you noticed, it’s the ones who dream who find their dreams come true. Now this isn’t real war, but it’s a near war, and when the real thing breaks loose, I can tell the managing editor I served as a war correspondent in the Cuban-Spanish campaign. And he may give me a real job!”

“And you LIKE this?” groaned David.

“I wouldn’t, if I were as sick as you are,” said Carr, “but I’ve a stomach like a Harlem goat.” He stooped and lowered his voice. “Now, here are two fake filibusters,” he whispered. “The men you read about in the newspapers. If a man’s a REAL filibuster, nobody knows it!”

Coming toward them was the tall man who had knocked David out, and the little one who had wanted to tie him to a tree.

“All they ask,” whispered Carr, “is money and advertisement. If they knew I was a reporter, they’d eat out of my hand. The tall man calls himself Lighthouse Harry. He once kept a light-house on the Florida coast, and that’s as near to the sea as he ever got. The other one is a dare-devil calling himself Colonel Beamish. He says he’s an English officer, and a soldier of fortune, and that he’s been in eighteen battles. Jimmy says he’s never been near enough to a battle to see the red-cross flags on the base hospital. But they’ve fooled these Cubans. The Junta thinks they’re great fighters, and it’s sent them down here to work the machine guns. But I’m afraid the only fighting they will do will be in the sporting columns, and not in the ring.”