That handkerchief was always the signal of worry or perplexity with Brent, and now, right on the wharves and feeling for his state of mind, I halted to say good-bye.
“Wouldn’t you care to see her?” he asked.
“No thanks,” I replied. “I ought to meet a man at twelve and it’s after eleven now—and——”
“He’ll wait,” replied the Captain. “It’s only a step from here and she’s worth seeing. Kim on.”
He took me by the arm and led me along, reluctantly enough, towards some mean-looking buildings, the relics of old days; under the bowsprit of a full rigged ship, over hawsers, and then on to a decayed slip of a wharf beside which an old schooner lay moored.
“That’s her,” said Brent.
On her counter in letters almost vanished stood the word Greyhound.
“The Greyhound,” said I, “is this the old schooner you and Slane owned?”
“The same,” said Brent. “She’s to be towed to the breakers’ yard eight bells—noon, they gave me word so that I might have a last look at her.”
So this was the funeral he was to attend. He mopped his face with the red handkerchief, contemplated the deck beneath him, heaved a sigh and then, “Come down,” said he. “I’ve told Jimmy Scott to leave me something in the cabin.”