The old man eyed him from head to foot before he answered. But there was no fear in his face—only pity—naked and undisguised.
“Naw,” he replied, spitting to leeward. “There ain’t no beer in N’ York fer me but Otto Fehrenbach’s.”
Geltman looked at him a moment and then turned despairingly aft. The yacht was bewitched and they were all bewitched with her.
CHAPTER III
“It’s lucky Ollie Farquhar’s fat,” said Mortimer Crabb when Geltman was out of earshot. “It was neat, Jepson, beautifully neat. Did you ever see fish take the bait better? But he’ll be coming to in a minute.”
Captain Jepson was watching the bewildered brewer. “He won’t get much information there,” he grinned.
“It can’t last much longer, though,” said Crabb. “How much of a run is it to the coast?”
“About an hour, sir.”