“Oh, he did, did he?” said Hank.
“Well, he was secretary of the Brookland Creek Yacht Club and they wanted her for a floating annex. When I refused, he got impudent and said the members wouldn’t have anything to do with the deal as they weren’t a suicide club. That joke got about.”
“I heard it,” said Hank.
“It crabbed her. All the smarties got busy guying her and me, and I got a letter from a chap calling himself Charon and offering ten dollars for her as a house boat on the Styx, and so it went on till everybody forgot her, but it has dished any chance of a deal. Mention her to any yachtsman and all those damned old jokes flutter up like moths; it’s like a woman’s reputation. Once it’s damaged, there’s no use in shaking it out of the window and putting new buttons on it—there’s no buyers.”
Hank agreed. “Well, what’s your terms?” said he at last.
“Ten thousand dollars,” said Tyrebuck.
“Is she insured?”
“She’s insured for ten thousand dollars. I pushed her through with the insurance agents that do my steamboat work.”
“But I don’t want to buy her. I want to charter her.”