Slim, the third man, had stretched out again on the kapok cushions on the bench near the table, his glass on the floor beside him and his hat half over his eyes. Intercepting Shayne’s glance at the rum bottle, he grinned. “If you’re a drinking man, like Sylvester claims, then you know Demerara.”

“I know it. It’s better than a hundred and fifty proof.”

“Yeah. Gets you where you want to go fast. I can’t drink it ashore. Knocks me off my feet. But out here on the water it seems just right.”

Slim’s complexion was swarthy too. He looked Sicilian or Italian, or maybe Portuguese. Sylvester had called him Collins, which didn’t seem to fit at all, but he came honestly by his first name anyhow. He was painfully tall and gangling, with a stooped posture which called attention to the fact that he was no longer young. He had dark eyes which he kept half-closed, and large, widely separated front teeth.

“Sylvester,” he called lazily. “How’s your drink holding out?”

“I’ll take him one,” Ed said.

He poured Demerara in a glass without measuring, added a dollop of water and a single ice cube. It was a drink to stagger a horse, but when he handed it to Sylvester at the wheel, the little man grinned and lapped it all down. Ed took the empty glass, refilled it from the bottle and returned to Sylvester. “Not so fast on this one, fella. Get us out of the harbor first.”

Sylvester laughed. “Don’ worry, my frien’. Dead drunk I could navigate. With the engine you gave me, in a good boat like the Santa Clara, a baby could run her.” He swallowed half the glassful and when Ed moved back to the stern, beckoned to Shayne.