Mabel harbored a feeling close to envy as she watched the Scotsman negotiate with the two sailors. He made it look so easy, sidling up to the two men with a drink in hand, dodging arguments with them and placating their dissatisfaction with a short conversation. She knew she'd never be able to win that way, and it pissed her off. It seemed Mabel was destined for a life of doing things the hard way. Despite her bitterness, though, Mabel was impressed with the man. She certainly thought she had chosen a good partner for this endeavor, one that complemented her own abilities. Things seemed to be going well until Pegleg and his two fellows clacked in. She felt the tension expand instantaneously, even amidst the merry clamor of the tavern and the comfortable semi-content MacNichols had just instilled in the crew. Jackham had his hands on his hips and elbows fanned out to give him the appearance of a stout diamond. With that characteristic hunkering walk of his, he made his way over to the stairs. Mabel leaned farther into the wall, hiding deeper in the shadows under the staircase so as to hide from the trio's sight. She wasn't entirely sure if they saw her or not, especially since they seemed rather unblemished by alcohol this evening.

She listened to all three of them go up the stairs. They hadn't bothered to stop at the bar or pat some of the other patrons on the backs before going; clearly they had some pressing purpose upstairs. Mabel's eyes went to Bogart, who was dispensing a drink into someone's tankard behind the bar. His eyes were daggerlike on the three [i]Trident[/i] sailors ascending the stairs, but he held his tongue. The observation was subtle, but for Mabel, an internal lookout was screaming out an alarm. Bogart had to know what Jackham and the others were doing upstairs, and he had to be involved in it somehow if he wasn't barking at them to "order a damn drink if ye goin' ta loiter 'round here." Something was wrong. Mabel made brief eye contact with the Scotsman across the floor. She didn't bother to nod or gesture or go whisper something to him; he'd know where she'd be. She waited a few seconds before setting her drink down, then tip-toed upstairs. She walked gently on the edge of each step, knowing that was where the boards were least likely to creak. Once she was up top and saw no one around, she moved snakelike across the hall. There were two rooms on either side, but only one had a door. Someone hadn't bothered to replace the missing doorknob, it seemed, so Mabel had an easy orifice for eavesdropping. She did a quick scan of the upstairs and found that no one else but her and the three sailors were up here. [i]Couldn't ask for better chances,[/i] Mabel noted gratefully. She slithered into the room adjacent to the closed-off one where she assumed Jackham and the others to be and tucked herself into a corner between an open window and a broad dresser. She could jump out the window, slide down the veranda's roof, and beat hell across the road if she absolutely had to escape. At that point, though, her clandestine operation would be entirely sabotaged. She quieted her breathing and focused on her hearing.

She heard two voices mostly. They were talking loudly only to hear each other over the clamor below them, but Mabel could hardly make out what they were saying. One of the voices was slightly louder, or closer, than the other. "Don't listen to that Jafferty twat," someone gruffly barked. "Man's got a pea-sized brain. Why would we pitch in for the Crookeds when we can just do the work ourselves? Don't the man realize we're here because Brailham ain't puttin' enough money in our pockets?" Mabel knew the Crookeds to be the strange, anomic group of mercenaries that lived more so in the wilderness of Nassau than in the port. People usually only hired them for odd jobs, and no one was quite sure what their purpose or existence were like. They had become surrounded by more and more wild fables as they became increasingly obscure. "Honestly," the same voice pressed on, "I don't know what's wrong with that guy. Everything that comes outta his mouth is just plain moronic."

Another voice came in. "Alright, drop it, man. Let's move on to the..." His voice faded out for a few words. "At land, or at sea? How's this going to go?"

"I say at sea," the third voice entered, previously unheard. "Too many witnesses at land, whether we're in port or ashore some stranded isle."

"But if we do this at sea and don't have the numbers, there's no escape for us," Jackham pointed out. A silence lapsed among them. Mabel pressed herself into the wall more to make sure she wasn't missing anything.

"What's that sheep-shagger doing down there?" one of them asked suddenly. "I got a weird feeling coming in. We might have to keep an eye on that one."

At that moment, Mabel was yanked out of her eavesdropping by the sound of someone's feet coming up the stairs. She held her breath and squeezed as far back as she could, hoping to whoever that she would not be seen. Someone walked down the hall and knocked on the door without bothering to check for any spies in the other rooms. [i]Amateurs,[/i] Mabel thought with amusement and great relief. But then she heard the newcomer, who might have sounded like Bogart, clap his hands together and say, "Come on, boys, let's go." Mabel wasn't sure she could evade so many people. She didn't want to push her luck, but her only way out was risky in a different way. Her reflexes spurred her into immediate motion. Without hesitation, she ducked under the glass of the open window and emerged out onto the slanted roof. Fortunately, it was dark out; she had a chance of not being identified. She scooted herself off the edge of the veranda's covering and landed heavily on the dirt road outside. She didn't want to risk going back inside to get MacNichols, so she took off at a sharp pace, hoping the Scotsman would think to meet her back at the hill sometime.