“That ain’t buyin’ drink,” countered Mr. Harman. “Nor swallerin’ it, which is what I’m arguin’ against——Look at her how she’s liftin’.”
They said no more, watching the oncoming boat, now showing her bridge canvas distinct from her hull. Then suddenly Davis spoke.
“That’s no mail boat,” said Davis, “not big enough, stove-pipe funnel, and look at that canvas. She’s not even a B.P. boat—some old tub carrying copra or trade.”
“Not she,” said Harman. “Steam don’t pay in the copra business, bunkers have to be too big, seein’ there’s no coalin’ stations much in the islands.”
“We’ll soon see,” said Davis, and they did.
The stranger came shearing along, showing up now as a five or six hundred ton squat cargo boat, riding high and evidently in ballast, with a rust-red stove-pipe funnel and a general air of neglect that shouted across the sea.
Then the thud of the engines ceased, a yoop of her siren cut the air like a whiplash, and a string of bunting blew out.
Harman waved his shirt, and as the stranger came gliding on to them he got ready to catch the rope that a fellow was preparing to cast from the bow.
As they came alongside, lifting and falling with the swell, a big red-faced man, leaning over the bridge rail, began shouting directions, whilst Davis, seizing the ladder which had been dropped, climbed on deck, leaving Harman to manage the canoe.
The Oskosh was the name of the hooker, and Billy Schumways was the name of her master and owner. He was the big man on the bridge; seven days out from Arafata Lagoon with a crew of Chinks and a Savage Island bo’sun, makin’ down for Fuanatafi in a hurry. All of which he roared at Davis from the bridge and at Harman from over the bridge side.