“I’m Mr. Fessenden. She looks like a good boat.”
“There ain’t any better of her class from Cape May to Hatteras,” said the boatman. “It’s a pity Mr. Danton’s got the power-boat idea in his head.”
“Yes, he told me that was one of the reasons he’s giving up the Will-o’-the-Wisp. He’s bought a hundred-ton steam-yacht, I believe.”
“That’s right, sir. Well, she’s all right, and I’m to be master of her, so I guess I hadn’t ought to complain, but, after all, a real sailer is better, I think, sir.”
The boat was sloop-rigged, seaworthy rather than fast, and, for her length, very broad of beam and astonishingly roomy. Spars and deck were spick and span in new ash, and her sides glistened with white paint.
“Would you like to go over her?” suggested the boatman. “Here’s the keys to everything, Mr. Fessenden—the rooms, and these are for the lockers and the water-tanks.”
The party clambered aboard and proceeded to explore the little craft. The women exclaimed with surprise and delight.
“Two cabins!” said Mrs. Dick Randall. “One at each end—do you see, Polly? And what’s this cunning cubby-hole between the rooms?”
“That’s the galley, ma’am,” answered the boatman. “The kitchen, you’d call it. Do you see that little oil-stove, there? Big enough to do what’s wanted plenty. Yes’m, she’s as well found as any old-time Baltimore clipper, she is. A cabin aft for the owner, and a fok’s’l room for me. Mr. Danton used to say he had a right to make me comfortable, if he wanted to. You know his queer ways, maybe. We kept the stores in those lockers. She’s got some of ’em aboard yet.”
“I should say so,” declared Polly, who had been rummaging about. “Potted tongue and jams, and a whole ham, and, I declare, here’s the sweetest little coffee-tin full of coffee!”