"Get up, Howell!"

"Mmmph? What, Lovey?" Mr. Howell shifted, eyes closed, and clutched his teddy bear to him.

"I said GET UP!"

Mr. Howell's eyes snapped open at that furious snarl. He turned around. "Captain! What on Earth?"

The Skipper grabbed the lapels of Mr. Howell's cashmere pyjamas, crushing them. "You owe me some answers, Howell. And a lot more!"

Mr. Howell stared at the Skipper in fear and astonishment. The Skipper certainly hadn't been himself since Kinkaid's mad manhunt, but this smouldering rage was terrifying. Mr. Howell glanced over at the still peacefully sleeping figure of his wife and knew he had to humour the man for now. "Of course, Captain," Mr. Howell whispered, far more calmly than he felt. "But perhaps we might discuss it in some more convenient location. Outside at the table, perhaps?"

"Get moving!"

Only a hazy crescent moon glimmered in the dark sky above the silent camp. The bamboo table, devoid of food and fellowship, lay in the dim light like a mortuary slab.

The Skipper had virtually dragged Mr. Howell across the clearing by the lapels. Now he thrust the millionaire down onto a bamboo bench and loomed over him. Mr. Howell sat up and straightened his collar nervously, darting a sidelong glance at the Professor's hut in case he should need to call out for reinforcements. "Captain, what's this all about? What have I done?"

"It's what you didn't do, you dirty louse!" The Skipper barely kept his voice low. "I oughtta tear you limb from limb!"

With an effort, Mr. Howell kept his own voice calm. "All right, then, Captain. What didn't I do? I assume this has something to do with our young friend?"

"You bet it does, Howell! And that night you went to pay off Kinkaid!"

Mr. Howell stared for a moment before he spoke in tones of hushed horror. "Captain, is this about the bribe? Why, I swear to you, I was prepared to pay Kinkaid anything! He knew that! But the man was a lunatic! You have my word!"

"I'm not talking about the money, and you know it! I'm talking about when you told me those two landsharks hadn't hurt my little buddy!"

Mr. Howell blinked. "They hadn't, Captain! I could see it with my own eyes! The boy was unharmed!"

"But what about afterwards?" demanded the Skipper, growing ever louder. "You said they weren't going to hurt him either! At least not that night!"

"And I'm certain they didn't! It's not possible!"

The Skipper bared his teeth like an enraged grizzly. "Stow it, Howell! You knew, all right! I could see it in your face that night! You knew what Ramoo wanted!"

"Ramoo?" Mr. Howell gasped as if a lightning flash had lit the clearing. "So that's what this is all about! But what exactly has Gilligan told you?"

"Told me?" Those blue eyes blazed as the Skipper took Mr. Howell's words for a confession. "How could he tell me? How does a man admit a thing like that?" The Skipper stabbed a thick finger in the direction of his hut. "But he's been screaming in his sleep for you not to leave him with Ramoo, and I can guess the rest!"

"See here, Captain! You don't understand!"

"I understand enough! You left him with that animal and saved your own skin!" Fury, pain and betrayal welled in the Skipper's eyes. He grabbed one of Mr. Howell's lapels as his other hand bunched into a fist. "You cheap, no-good stuffed shirt! You louse!"

Neither man noticed the three doors swinging open around the clearing. "You are mistaken, Captain!" Mr. Howell thundered. He stood up, and his eyes and voice took on the commanding power of the chairman of the board. "Yes, I know exactly what that blackguard intended, but it did not happen! Do you hear me? It – did - not - happen - because I, Thurston Howell the Third, did not let it happen!"

Stunned, the Skipper froze as a beam of light suddenly shone on his face. It was wielded by a pyjama-clad Professor, standing in his hut doorway. "Good Heavens! What in the world is going on out here?"

The tousle-haired girls peeked out of their hut: Mary Ann in her long shirt, holding a candle and Ginger clutching a blanket around herself. "Mr. Howell? S-skipper? What's all the shouting about?" whispered the redhead.

Mrs. Howell stood with her hand on the red-curtained French door, while her other hand held a diamond watch. "Thurston, dear, can't you be a little more quiet?" she called innocently. "It's only two o'clock in the morning!"

Mr. Howell gently put his hand on the Skipper's and pulled it from his lapel. "Hello, Lovey dear! Good evening, Ladies, Professor. Do forgive us, everyone," he called, flashing his most disarming smile. "The Captain was just telling me about a barroom brawl he fought in Singapore, and I'm afraid he got a little carried away! Ha! Such a tale of derring-do!" Mr. Howell turned to the Skipper, still smiling. "Perhaps we'd best continue this most absorbing story in your hut, Captain. We seem to be disturbing folk out here."

The Professor wasn't fooled for a minute. He looked at Mr. Howell for a moment, then at the Skipper. "Skipper? How is Gilligan?" he asked cautiously.

Mr. Howell's pronouncement and the sight of the others had taken the wind from the Skipper's sails, and he breathed deeply as the adrenalin slowly ebbed out of him. Pushing his disordered blond hair out of his eyes, he tried to form a coherent answer. "Uh...he's...he's asleep, Professor. I gave him that drug of yours."

"I see. Still, you shouldn't leave him alone too long." The Professor regarded both men in the steady beam of the light. "Why don't I keep you two gentlemen company?"

As the Professor started forwards, Mr. Howell held up a hand and smiled. "No, no, Professor. We wouldn't dream of keeping you up. We can manage. Isn't that right, Captain?"

The Skipper let out a long, slow breath. Then he nodded again.

"Shall we, then?" Mr. Howell bowed and politely gestured to the Skipper to precede him. Like a man in a trance, the Skipper stumbled towards his hut as Mr. Howell followed. The millionaire turned back for a moment. "Ta-ta, everyone. Nighty-night. See you shortly, Lovey dear." He waved affably at everyone, smiling broadly.

"Ta-ta, dear," called Mrs. Howell happily, and with a flutter of blue chiffon, she floated back into her hut. Mary Ann and Ginger traded one uncertain glance before looking at the Professor for guidance. When the scientist nodded reassuringly they crept indoors, the wavering glow of their candle swiftly disappearing from behind their curtains.

The Professor stood watching the two men for a few moments more. At last he gave them both one last cautious wave before snicking off the flashlight and vanishing indoors.

The Skipper took a deep breath. The moonlight seemed softer now and the roaring in his ears had given way to the soft rustle of the palm trees. Bewildered, he stared at his old rival. "Howell...my God, did I just hear you right? Did you just say you didn't let it happen?"

Any fear Mr. Howell had felt was gone now. He looked the old salt square in the eye once again, though he kept his voice low. "Good Heavens, man, what do you take me for? The boy's like a son to me! Do you think I'd have abandoned him to such a fate?" Mr. Howell's eyes flashed with anger, though it was not for the Skipper. "Bad enough the poor lad was already under the threat of Kinkaid's gun. But rifle or no rifle, I'd no intention of leaving that hut until I knew I'd thwarted Ramoo's sordid little scheme!"

Suddenly the Skipper remembered that Kinkaid had had a gun. Of course he had – that was why the hunt had happened in the first place. That was what Mr. Howell had faced that night. He had ventured into the den of a madman, unarmed, to save Gilligan. The Skipper struggled to understand. "B-but how did you stop him? How could you have stopped him?"

"You play poker, Captain. You're a gambling man."

"Wh-yes."

"Well, be thankful you've never played against Thurston Howell the Third. I'd have fleeced you in a minute." Mr. Howell gave a wry smile. "I bluffed them, Captain. Played them against each other. Kinkaid are Ramoo were two of a kind, you see. They didn't trust one other – at least not the way that we do. That was the Ace up my sleeve."

Suddenly they heard a faint cry from the crew's hut. "Skipper!"

The Skipper blanched. "Gilligan! Gilligan, little buddy!"

He charged into the hut, Mr. Howell close on his heels.