“See that blighter,” he yelled across to Raft. “Know her?”
“Should think I did, she’s the Gaston de Paree—a yacht—seen her in T’lon.”
Then they came down, crawling like weary men, and on deck no one abused them for their slackness or the time they’d been over their job. The Albatross was running easy and the Bo’sw’n with others was taken up with a momentary curiosity over the great white yacht.
No one knew her but Ponting, who had for several years acted as deck hand on some of the Mediterranean boats.
“I know her,” said he ranging up beside the others. “She’s the Gaston de Paree, a yot—seen her in T’lon harbour and seen her again at Suez, she’s a thousand tonner, y’can’t mistake them funnels nor the width of them, she’s a twenty knotter and the chap that owns her is a king or somethin’; last time I saw her she was off to the China seas, they say she’s all cluttered up with dredges and dipsy gear, and she mostly spends her time takin’ soundin’s and scrabblin’ up shell fish and such—that’s his way of amusin’ himself.”
“Then he must be crazy,” said the Bo’sw’n, “but b’God he’s got a beauty under him—what’s he doin’ down here away?”
“Ax me another,” said Ponting. Raft stood with the others, watching the Gaston de Paris from whose funnels now the smoke was coming festooned on the wind, then he went below to shed his oilskins and smoke.
She had ceased to interest him.