“Thank God, the boy’s true-blue, after all!” he murmured. “Just a little wild, perhaps, but he’s a Briggs—he’s sound metal at the core. Thank God for that!”
He opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a little slip of paper that helped refresh his memory, and approached the safe. Right, left, he turned the knob, as the combination on the paper bade him; then he swung open the doors, and pulled out a little drawer.
“Cap’n Briggs, sir!”
At sound of Ezra’s voice in the doorway, he started almost guiltily.
“Well, what is it?”
“Anythin’ you’re wantin’ down to Dudley’s store, sir?”
“No, Ezra.” The captain’s answer seemed uneasy. Under the sharp boring of Ezra’s steely eyes, he quailed. “No, there’s nothing.”
“All right, cap’n!” The old cook remained a moment, observing. Then with the familiarity of long years, he queried:
“Takin’ money again, be you? Whistlin’ whales, cap’n, that won’t do!”