Again Cleigh shook his head, as much over the situation as over the
question.

"What, you ran all this risk and hadn't the nerve to search her? Well,
that's rich! Unless you've read her from my book. She would probably have
scratched out your eyes. There's an Amazon locked up in that graceful
body. I'd like to see her head against a bit of clear blue sky--a touch of
Henner blues and reds. What a whale of a joke! Abduct a young woman, risk
prison, and then afraid to lay hands on her! You poor old piker!"
Cunningham laughed.

"Cunningham----"

"All right, I'll be merciful. To make a long story short, it means that
for the present I am in command of this yacht. I warned you. Will you be
sensible, or shall I have to lock you up like your two-gun man from
Texas?"

"Piracy!" cried Cleigh, coming out of his maze.

"Maritime law calls it that, but it isn't really. No pannikins of rum, no
fifteen men on a dead man's chest. Parlour stuff, you might call it. The
whole affair--the parlour side of it--depends upon whether you purpose to
act philosophically under stress or kick up a hullabaloo. In the latter
event you may reasonably expect some rough stuff. Truth is, I'm only
borrowing the yacht as far as latitude ten degrees and longitude one
hundred and ten degrees, off Catwick Island. You carry a boson's whistle
at the end of your watch chain. Blow it!" was the challenge.