"Well, Murphy's too long," he announced. "Nosey'll do you aboard
this craft. Got THAT?"

"I gotcha . . . sir," came the reply, insolent in its very softness
and unconcern. "Nosey Murphy goes . . . sir."

And then he laughed--the three of them laughed, if laughter it might
be called that was laughter without sound or facial movement. The
eyes alone laughed, mirthlessly and cold-bloodedly.

Certainly Mr. Pike was not enjoying himself with these baffling
personalities. He turned upon the leader, the one who had given the
warning and who looked the admixture of all that was Mediterranean
and Semitic.

"What's YOUR name?"

"Bert Rhine . . . sir," was the reply, in tones as soft and careless
and silkily irritating as the other's.

"And YOU?"--this to the remaining one, the youngest of the trio, a
dark-eyed, olive-skinned fellow with a face most striking in its
cameo-like beauty. American-born, I placed him, of immigrants from
Southern Italy--from Naples, or even Sicily.

"Twist . . . sir," he answered, precisely in the same manner as the
others.

"Too long," the mate sneered. "The Kid'll do you. Got THAT?"