at least for the moment, was crazed from its effects. But the
bark had not been abandoned. The owner was on board. Kitchell
was wrong; she was no derelict; not one penny could they gain by
her salvage.

For an instant a wave of bitterest disappointment passed over
Wilbur as he saw his $30,000 dwindling to nothing. Then the
instincts of habit reasserted themselves. The taxpayer in him was
stronger than the freebooter, after all. He felt that it was his
duty to see to it that the girl had her rights. Kitchell must be
made aware of the situation--must be told that Moran, the
daughter, the Captain's heir, was on board the schooner; that the
"kid" found in the wheel-box was a girl. But on second thought
that would never do. Above all things, the brute Kitchell must
not be shown that a girl was aboard the schooner on which he had
absolute command, nor, setting the question of Moran's sex aside,
must Kitchell know her even as the dead Captain's heir. There was
a difference in the men here, and Wilbur appreciated it.
Kitchell, the law-abiding taxpayer, was a weakling in comparison
with Kitchell, the free-booter and beach-comber in sight of his
prize.

"Son," said the Captain, making a bundle of all the papers, "take
these over to my bunk and hide 'em under the donkey's breakfast.
Stop a bit," he added, as Wilbur started away. "I'll go with you.
We'll have to bury the old man."

Throughout all the afternoon the Captain had been drinking the
whiskey from the decanter found in the cabin; now he stood up
unsteadily, and, raising his glass, exclaimed: