Jack told him, in fierce sentences and few.
“So, you see, Jim, it’s make or break,” he concluded, “and we’ve got no time to lose. Come on!”
Jim sat solid on his tool-box.
“Wait a minute, Jack,” he said soberly. “This is a big thing you’re asking me. There’s ten thousand dollars gone into this outfit, and it’s all I’ve got in the world; it’s my last stake. Half of it’s not mine, anyhow. I had to get backing, and it’s not nearly paid off.
“This passenger work isn’t the gold-mine any more that it used to be; I can’t charge these summer sports more than fifteen dollars a jump; upkeep is something fierce; and I’m still in the hole for about three thousand bucks. I figured to clear by the end of the season.”
“But don’t you see, Jim,” Rankin appealed piteously, “it’s the only way! And she’s running right into deadly danger! My ship! A United States fighting-ship, Jim. And—and—” His voice trailed away searching hopelessly for something to say, some conclusive argument that would accomplish his purpose.
Jim sat motionless. His face had the torn, introspective expression of Rodin’s “Thinker.” Presently his voice came in a ruminative monotone through lips that scarcely opened:
“And Uncle Sam needs his ships mighty bad just now, eh?” Then suddenly: “Hell!” he shouted, and jumped to his feet. “Damn our old uncle, anyway! Stick your head out of the flap and holler for my mechanics.”
Rankin jumped at him with both hands outstretched.
“Jim! I knew you’d do it! You’re white all through!”