Because the rogues did not run up the skull and crossbones; because they
did not swagger up and down the deck, knives and pistols in their sashes,
she couldn't be made to believe them criminals!

Amusing! She could not see that if he spoke roughly it was only an
expression of the smothered pain of his mental crucifixion. He could not
tell her he loved her for fear she might misinterpret her own sentiments.
Besides, her present mood was not inductive to any declaration on his
part; a confession might serve only to widen the breach. Who could say
that it wasn't Cunningham's game to take Jane along with him in the end?
There was nothing to prevent that. His father holding aloof, the loyal
members of the crew in a most certain negligible minority, what was there
to prevent Cunningham from carrying off Jane?

Blood surged into Dennison's throat; a murderous fury boiled up in him;
but he remembered in time what these volcanic outbursts had cost him in
the past. So he did not rush to the chart house. Cunningham would lash him
with ridicule or be forced to shoot him. But his rage carried him as far
as the wireless room. He could hear the smack of the spark, but that was
all. He tried the door--locked. He tried the shutters--latched.
Cunningham's man was either calling or answering somebody. Ten minutes
inside that room and there would be another tale to tell.