The trim yacht Vesta was plowing smoothly through the mild blue waters of the Gulf Stream. Upon the rear deck, beneath a widespread canopy, sat four men, dressed in suits of cool pongee. Glasses clinked in their hands. Often their conversation was broken with ribald laughter.
The four appeared a typical group of pleasure-seekers, with nothing more to do than enjoy to the fullest the luxurious life of tropical seas.
There was a definite ease of equality about these men; each seemed to possess poise and leadership. In action, manner, and deportment, they were much alike. Yet in facial appearance and physical proportions, there were noticeable differences.
The difference became particularly evident during a peculiar ceremony which the men performed. They were drinking to the health of each in turn — apparently a regular procedure.
One man would keep to his seat as the other three stood and lifted their glasses.
"To George Ellsworth," those drinking the toast first recited in unison, "the best of luck and health!" They drank and sat down, plopping their empty glasses before the man whom they had toasted.
"Fill them up, Butcher. Fill them up!"
The one called George Ellsworth complied. His manner was characteristic of his nickname, "Butcher." He was a big, bluff fellow, some forty odd years of age. His face was full, his lips jocular. His fat, beefy hand gripped the bottle and filled the glasses.
Then Ellsworth rose, and two others got to their feet with him. The fourth of the group remained seated.
"To Howard Best," came the chant, "the best of luck and health!" Down went the drinks; down plopped the glasses.
"Your turn to fill them, Deacon," said Butcher.
Solemn-faced and taciturn, Howard Best silently filled the glasses, his white, scrawny hands tense. He was the sober-minded member of the group. The sobriquet of "Deacon" fitted him like a slipper. He appeared years older than Butcher. Standing next to the huge man, Deacon looked very lean and withered.
"To Maurice Exton, the best of luck and health!"
Thus chimed the third toast; and after it the jocular order:
"Pour it out, Major! Don't be stingy with the bottle!"
Maurice Exton — the one called "Major" — was a medium-sized man in his late thirties. His hair was black, his features sallow. A neat mustache that matched his hair adorned his upper lip.
A Van Dyke tipped his chin. His shoulders were erect, and had a military bearing. He filled the glasses with steady hands. Then came the toast to the fourth of the group:
"To Joel Hawkins, the best of luck and health!"
After the passing of this last toast, there was momentary silence.
Then Deacon turned to Joel Hawkins and said:
"Don't forget the glasses, Ferret. There's another one coming up."
"That's right," replied "Ferret," with a wry grin. "Did you think I forgot?" Joel Hawkins leaned forward with a shrewd, gleaming grin. Short, stoop-shouldered, so as to almost appear deformed, the name of Ferret was apt. The man's eyes peered sharply through partly closed lids.
Handling the bottle with his face on a level with the glasses, he seemed to be measuring each drink so that all would be exactly the same.
Major picked up his glass and stood, while the other three followed him to their feet.
"To David Traver!" he said, in an even voice.
"To David Traver," came the chorus, "the best of luck and health!" The men drank this final toast more slowly. Their glasses swung down one by one. As they resumed their seats, they looked about with satisfaction.
"Well, we've remembered Judge," declared Butcher.
"Judge has remembered us," said Deacon quietly.
The conversation took a new turn now that the strange formality had reached its end.
"New York in the morning. The end of the trail," announced Butcher, with a broad smile.
"All on deck at seven. We want to take a look at the Statue of Liberty!"
"Let the old gal take a look at us!" cackled Ferret.
"It's all the same to me," said Major. "What I'm thinking about is the few bottles that we might carry in. Judge would appreciate hearing our toast, when we see him."
"Deacon's the boy to lug in the grog," said Ferret cunningly. "He could pack it under his coat. There's plenty of room around that spindle shape of his. Lend him one of your coats, Butcher."
"Why worry about it?" questioned Butcher. "Like enough Judge will have a house-load of booze in over the Canadian border. No use monkeying with the custom men, if we can help it."
"There's sense in that," declared Major. "You know I don't like to take foolish chances. There are enough big ones. It was a great load off my mind when we spotted that plane off the Florida coast. The crew figured we sent in our full liquor supply then."
"They've been educated to it," observed Deacon.
"The important thing now," resumed Major, "is to split up after we land. Handshakes at the dock. The best of luck — for the future!"
"And no tears from you, Deacon," said Butcher. "I thought you were going to bust out crying when we made that overboard heave down in the Caribbean—"
"Forget it, Butcher," growled Major; "forget it! Deacon has forgotten it. That reminds me, Ferret — you're the one that has some forgetting to do."
"Major is right, Ferret," seconded Deacon.
"That letter writing" — Major shook his head in disapproval — "it wasn't right, Ferret!"
"But Hawk was a pal of mine," protested Ferret, looking around the group. "He wouldn't squawk. Anyway, I only told him—"
"We talked that over before," said Major. "We'll drop it now. I'm thinking of tomorrow. I'll get you a time-table, Ferret, as soon as we reach New York. The first train out of the big town will be the best. We want you to drop in on Judge ahead of the rest of us."
"All right," returned Ferret, in an annoyed tone. "Leave it to me, Major."
"I'll leave it to you!" Major spoke emphatically. "But remember, you're one in five. The interests of the gang come first. You may have some idea of your own. Get it out of your head — until afterward. There'll be plenty of time, later on. We're all going to be independent, after a while."
"Remember it," echoed Deacon, staring solemnly at Ferret.
Butcher chimed in with a warning growl.
That ended the discussion. Butcher, chewing the end of a Havana cigar, called for the steward, and another bottle was brought to the table. Afterward came dinner; then an ocean evening that ended with the men tottering singly to their cabins.
Faces were weary and solemn when the men gathered in the morning, as the Vesta nosed her way through the outer harbor. Standing by the rail, the four watched the outgoing liners, and stared toward the Staten Island shore.
Butcher seemed half groggy and less jocular than usual. Deacon was quiet and silent; but that was not unusual. Major said very little, but bore himself with the poise of a veteran. Ferret was the quietest of all. Yet his glance was furtive, and his manner restless.
With various delays in order, it was late in the afternoon when the Vesta had finally docked, and the four men had passed the customs officials. Ashore, the departing passengers shook hands with the stern-faced captain of the yacht. The Vesta was due to clear for another port within a few days. Deacon entered a taxicab alone. Butcher drove off in another. Major and Ferret remained, the latter grinning as he looked along the avenue that bordered the water front.
Major left him for a moment, to return with a time-table.
"Your train leaves Grand Central at midnight," he said. "I've marked it here. Telephoned a reservation for you. Go get some dinner, take in a show, but be sure you pull out on the Whirlwind Limited. Get me?"
"I get you," answered Ferret with a grin. "So long, Major. I'll be seeing you later." Ferret stepped into a cab and rolled away. He went directly to the Grand Central Station. There he picked up his railroad and sleeper tickets. He followed Major's advice about obtaining dinner.
But afterward, Ferret went to a telephone booth and consulted the Manhattan directory. His first finger ran along one of the front pages of the book. It stopped at the name of Antrim. Ferret noted the address. He closed the book, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. He had found his entertainment for that night!
Major was right. There were five of them. The predominant interest of the five was a common interest. But Ferret — more than any of the others — had an interest of his own. He did not intend to let it pass. The others would never know!
There was plenty of time remaining before midnight. A stroll on Broadway first; then he could take the path he wanted. Leave it to luck. If luck came his way, he would meet it. Thus it was that shortly after ten o'clock, Ferret, hands in pocket, appeared on a street some blocks north of Forty-second Street, sauntering toward the apartment where Daniel Antrim made his home.