“I’ll be proceeding, Captain Wold,” McNulty answered.
As the Crayton swung about and steamed slowly seaward a sailor who had been aboard the steamer hurried up to the skipper. He was a young man and did not understand all of the traditions of the sea and the unwritten codes between masters. “When I was aboard, sir, I could smell whisky—Scotch whisky, sir. Some of her cargo must have broken in the storm.”
Captain Wold looked the youth squarely in the eye. “Youthful imagine, lad, youthful imagination,” he said as though giving an order. “There’s a skuttle-butt rumor that she’s a rum-runner, but I sniffed and didn’t smell a damned thing.”
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 10, 1929 issue of Short Stories Magazine.