“Yes.”
“What are you?”
“Nothing.”
Another explosion from the deck, stifled by a kick from Satan.
“But what are you doing here, anyway?”
Ratcliffe explained, Satan leaning comfortably on the rail and listening.
“A yacht—well, we’re the Sarah Tyler. Pap and me and Jude used to run the boat. He died last fall. Tyler was his name, and Satan Tyler’s mine. He said I yelled like Satan when a pup and he put the name on me—Say, that’s a dandy boat. I’m wanting a boat like that. Will you trade?”
“She’s not mine.”
“That don’t matter,” said Tyler with a laugh. “But I forgot: you aren’t in our way of business.”
“What’s your way of business?”