“Ye will, will ye?” he gritted fiercely. “Ye hev nothing to do with the business ’tween yer dad and me. Hand over that two hundred!” Rodney Darringford hesitated, though trembling with fear. With a single bound Tim Downey was beside him and his big, dirty hand was about his neck. “Hand it over, Rod Darringford, or I’ll choke the life out’n ye!” “Yes, yes!” stammered Rodney. “I want my half of thet divvy, and I’ll hev it, too.” He got it. But Tim noticed that his companion still held upon the papers the lawyer had sent. They might not have any value to him, but the very fact that Rodney was not disposed to let them go made him suspicious. A little later, when their preparations were about completed for each to go his way, Tim improved an opportunity when Rodney’s back was turned to slip the parcel of papers into his own pocket. Tim next produced a bottle and offered it to Rodney, who did not hesitate to accept, and no sooner had he drunk the liquor than his attitude towards his associate mellowed. He realized that he had money enough in his pocket to pay off his most pressing obligations. A vision of magnificent extravagance overcame him. He forgot the low estate of his companion in crime. “Tim!” he said exuberantly, “what are you going to do with your money?” “Spend it.” “Where?” “In Columbus. Do you suppose I’d stay in this dead town?” “No.” “No; too risky for me.” “I’ll go with you.” “Bully!” “I’m sick of work on the steamer. Besides, I’m afraid we might be suspected if we were seen with all this money.” “Right you are!” “So I’ll go with you.” “When?” “When you say.” “To-night?” “Can’t you wait until to-morrow?” “What for?” “I want to see my folks and make some kind of an excuse for leaving Millville.” “All right. I’ll meet you here to-morrow noon, and we’ll go to Columbus together. I’ll show you what life is, my boy.” So they separated, Rodney to go on board the _Warrior_, and Tim to visit one of the saloons of the city. CHAPTER X. A TELEPHONE MESSAGE. Dean Mercer had arisen from his berth early on that eventful morning, the proudest in his life. As he went upon the deck of the _Spray_, realizing that he was its commander, he felt as if his life work had truly begun. Without dreaming of the work of his enemies, he was extremely happy. At his first turn he was greeted by Jack Carboy with his characteristic salute, and the cheery voice of the old sailor bidding him a cordial: “Fine seas to ye, admiral.” “A return of the compliment, Mr. Carboy,” replied Dean, gravely, purposely imitating the manner of address of the other. “Reef yer sails!” fairly roared Jack. “Ship yer picter, ain’t I tol’ yer never to _mister_ ol’ Jack Carboy?” “Haven’t I told you not to _admiral_ me?” “Shiver my toplights, Dean,” cried the old tar, extending his hand. “My boy, ye air honest and true. I’ll stand by ye till the seas run dry.”