"Yes," said Floyd, "they are going to do away with the schooner. Well, we will see. We will see which of us is the cuter and which the stronger. Isbel, I am not alone."
"How?" said Isbel, looking at him with wide-open eyes.
"Yes, a friend. Providence sent him, I think." He began to tell her about Cardon, how he had met him in the street in Sydney, how Cardon had joined in the venture and was ready to assist against Schumer, and how he was now on board the _Southern Cross_ awaiting developments.
He had reached this stage in his story when a sound from outside made them both turn. It was the sound of oars in rowlocks.
Floyd sprang to the door. A boat that had crossed the lagoon from the fishing ground was within a few yards of the beach. It was the boat bringing Schumer from the fishing camp.
A man was seated beside Schumer in the stern sheets. Was it Luckman?
If indeed it was Luckman, then Luckman was a most formidable individual. This person seated beside Schumer was immense, a great four-square built man beside whom Schumer had the appearance of a youth.
As the boat touched the sand Schumer leaped out, and, half wading, made up the beach toward Floyd, who had come down from the house. Isbel had remained indoors.
"So you're back," cried Schumer, as he held out his hand. "I knew nothing till half an hour ago over there at the fishing ground I turned my head and saw the _Southern Cross_ coming into the lagoon. Isbel should have spotted her hours ago and given us a signal. Oh, I forgot. I have a new man to introduce you to, but you've seen his vessel; it ran in here yesterday for water. It is the _Domain_, of Sydney, owned by--who do you think?--Hakluyt, and here's her captain; Luckman is his name. Luckman, this is Mr. Floyd."
Just as Floyd held out his hand toward Luckman a curious sensation struck him, as though for a moment he were clairvoyant, as though for the hundredth part of a moment some glimpse had been given him of his psychic surroundings, a glimpse of the soul of Schumer, of Luckman, and incidentally of Hakluyt. It was Luckman's appearance, perhaps, that influenced him.
Luckman, though a very big man at a distance, was a very little man seen close to. In other words, he had nothing to recommend him but his size. He had, no doubt, been all that the barkeeper had hinted. He had, no doubt, sunk ships in his time and lost the lives of innumerable sailormen and escaped from the law himself by a miracle. All the same, from the crown of his flat head to the sole of his flat feet, the man was a duffer, a mass of brute force--nothing more. And the thing that struck Floyd most keenly at that moment was the thought that Luckman, like himself, was in the toils of Schumer and Hakluyt; that Luckman might be used as a tool against him--Floyd--but would be inevitably flung away when used by Schumer and Hakluyt. That they would take the opportunity not only of getting rid of the _Southern Cross_ at a high insurance and of their troublesome partner, but also of Luckman, their tool and assistant.