“Was it your sloop?” went on the fisherman.
“Yes. She was given to me the day she was blown over.”
“That so? Why didn’t you see to her at once?”
“I didn’t have time. I was told she was somewhere up here.”
“Who told you?”
“Tom Darrow.”
The instant I uttered the name I was sorry I had done so for I did not wish to get my honest old friend into trouble. The man I addressed scowled.
“Darrow ought to keep his mouth shut,” he muttered. “The sloop ain’t here.”
“What boat is that over yonder?”
“That’s my own craft.”