“Good morning, sir,” he said, briskly, without looking around.
As a rule Mr. Bixby did not care for visitors in the pilot-house. This one presently came up and stood a little behind him.
“How would you like a young man to learn the river?” he said.
The pilot glanced over his shoulder and saw a rather slender, loose-limbed young fellow with a fair, girlish complexion and a great tangle of auburn hair.
“I wouldn’t like it. Cub pilots are more trouble than they’re worth. A great deal more trouble than profit.”
The applicant was not discouraged.
“I am a printer by trade,” he went on, in his easy, deliberate way. “It doesn’t agree with me. I thought I’d go to South America.”
Bixby kept his eye on the river; but a note of interest crept into his voice.
“What makes you pull your words that way?” (“pulling” being the river term for drawling), he asked.
The young man had taken a seat on the visitors’ bench.