PART TEN: Who's to Blame?

"SACRE BLEU!"

The cry of shocked dismay came from the wheelhouse, where the ship's navigational computer was located. Sketch Paree stared incredulously at the coordinates registering on the computer's readout, then quickly unrolled the treasure map and gaped at the numbers that were scrawled across the backs of all five pieces that were now taped together. Non, it could not be true! But it was all too true – the numbers did not match. They were traveling in the wrong direction!

Though no longer hung over, the dozing gangsters were none too pleased to have their post-hangover beauty naps rudely interrupted by the sound of the ship's bell clanging wildly. Grumbling and complaining, they made their way to the wheelhouse. "What is it now, Paree?" groused the Brow.

"Zat is Capitaine Paree to you, m'sieur!"

"All right, all right, Cap-i-tan Paree. Now tell us why you rang."

When Sketch filled them in on the awful truth, all of the villains immediately began blaming each other for it.

"It's your fault, B-B Eyes," Itchy said accusingly. "You were the one who entered the coordinates before we left."

"MY fault? Nyahh, I entered those numbers exactly as they appeared on the map! Somebody must have changed them, see?"

"Well, don't look at me with those beady eyes of yours – I didn't do it!"

Oodles appeared to be deep in thought, an unusual state for him. "Didn't I see Flattop poking around the wheelhouse yesterday, before the party?" he finally asked.

"That's a load of bunk! Anyway, I didn't touch anything. All I did was look at the computer."

"Yes, but with a face like yours, it's a wonder it didn't stop working completely," commented Pruneface.

"Your pan's no beauty contest winner, either!" Flattop snapped, balling his hands into fists.

"Oh, knock it off, the both of you." said Stooge, stepping between them. "If you ask me, I think that the coordinates must've gotten scrambled during last night's storm, what with all the lightning and electricity that was in the air."

The Brow considered this. "Maybe ... or maybe it happened when the explosion went off. I'll bet that was it! The concussion from the blast must have done it. So it's really Mumbles's fault."

"Aw, come on, you can't prove that..." Stooge found himself saying, but his protest was lost in a chorus of "Yeah!" "That's right!" "It's all because of Mumbles!" "Nyahh, I hope the sharks got him..."

"Did you fix the coordin – uh, the coornid – um, the little number thingys, Sketch?" asked the Mole.

"Of course I did, you imbecile. If I 'adn't, we would probably all end up sailing to ze isle of Alcatraz!"

Pruneface's grisly visage looked even grimmer than usual. "That means we've wasted at least a day's supply of fuel, not to mention food and water, while going the wrong way. I suggest we ration ourselves for the remainder of this voyage. No more extravagant parties like last night's."

"Are you kidding?" replied Itchy, scratching his head like it was infested. "After this morning, I'm seriously tempted to get on the water wagon for keeps!"

Oodles was also scratching his head, but it wasn't due to itchiness. "Hey Brow, what did Pruneface mean by 'ration ourselves'?"

"He meant that you may have to go on a diet, Chubsy," the Brow answered, half-grinning as he poked his portly partner in his enormous paunch.

"Oh no!" Oodles gasped. "Not that! Anything but that!"

The sun was going down, forming a stunningly beautiful sunset that nobody on board the Dutch Master appreciated, so wrapped up were they all in their own petty thoughts and concerns. Stooge was rather annoyed that everyone else was so quick to make a scapegoat out of Mumbles. Flattop was furious with Pruneface for having had the gall to make a crack about his personal appearance. Oodles was appalled at the thought of possibly being forced to go on a diet. And Sketch Paree was disgruntled by the realization that he would have to give up being the ship's Capitaine the next day.

Meanwhile, somewhere across the water and many miles away, Mumbles huddled in his life raft, feeling very hungry, desperately thirsty, still rather damp and cold, and (though he hated to admit it) extremely scared. And one other thing that he also could hardly bear to acknowledge – he was lonesome. But he refused to allow himself to think about Stooge Viller. The blond hoodlum was convinced that he felt wretched enough without the added burden of guilt – something he was quite unaccustomed to – for thoughtlessly having killed off his best (and truth be told, his only) friend in the world...

My thanks to those who have been following this story so far. Sure, there's been no reviews as of this posting, but my traffic page tells me I'm getting quite a few hits, some from rather exotic places (waves to readers from Thailand, India and Germany). So I know that several people are interested, even if they don't feel like reviewing. Keep checking for new chapters (I usually update once a week); there's lots more to come!