ve it! _That's_ what the law demanded.
Let 'em _prove_ it!

* * * * *

When the _Black Eagle_ put back to Conch from following the little
_Spot Cash_, it was evident that the opportunity had come. The
weather was thick; there was a promise of wind in the air. Moreover,
with Archie Armstrong on the coast in a temper, it was the part of
wisdom to beware. Skipper George went gloomily to the cabin when the
schooner rode once more at anchor. It was time, now; he knew it, the
clerk knew it, the crew knew it. But Skipper George had no liking for
the job; nor had the clerk, to tell the truth, nor had the cook, nor
had the crew. Rascals are not made in a day; and it takes a long time
to innure them against fear and self-reproach. But skipper and crew of
the _Black Eagle_ were already committed. Their dealing for fish on
the coast had been unpardonable. The skipper could not explain it in
St. John's; nor could the clerk excuse it.

"We got t' go through with this, Tommy," said the gloomy skipper.

"Have a dram," the clerk replied. "I'm in sore need o' one meself."

It seemed the skipper was, too.

"With that little shaver on the coast," said the clerk, "'tis best
done quickly."

"I've no heart for it," the skipper growled.

The clerk's thin face was white and drawn. His hand trembled, now, as
he lifted his glass. Nor had _he_ any heart for it. It had been all
very well, at first; it had seemed something like a lark--just a wild
lark. The crew, too, had taken it in the spirit of larking--at first.
But now that the time was come both forecastle and cabin had turned
uneasy and timid.

In the forecastle, the cook said to the first hand:

"Wisht I was out o' this."

"Wisht I'd never come in it," the first hand sighed.

Their words were in whispers.

"I 'low," said the second hand, with a scared glance about, "that the
ol' man will--will _do_ it--the morrow."

The three averted their eyes--each from the other's.

"I 'low," the cook gasped.

Meantime, in the cabin, the clerk, rum now giving him a saucy outlook,
said: "'Twill blow half a gale the morrow."

"Ay," said the skipper, uneasily; "an' there's like t' be more than
half a gale by the glass."

"There'll be few craft out o' harbour."

"Few craft, Tommy," said the skipper, drawing a timid hand over his
bristling red beard. "I'm not likin' t' take the _Black Eagle_ t'
sea."

"'Tis like there'll be fog," the clerk co