The deck of the Wear Jack ran flush fore and aft. Neglect sat there with dirt and tobacco juice. Old ends of rope lay about and spars and main blocks that had seen a better day, and bits of newspaper and a bucket with potato peelings in it.
Forward, with her keel to the sky, lay an old broken dinghy that might have come out of the ark, and a flannel jumper aired itself on the port rail. No wonder that prospective buyers sniffed and went off.
The soft job man on the cabin skylight looked at the newcomers.
“Where’s your cyard?” said he.
Hank presented the card. “Now then,” said Hank, “if you’re not stuck to that skylight with cobbler’s wax, hoist yourself and get busy. I’m going right all over her, cabin first. Come along.”
He led the way down.
The saloon of the Wear Jack had plenty of head room, six feet four or so; there were bunks on either side and a cabin aft shut off by a bird’s-eye maple door. The upholstering was in crimson, crimson plush, and the table was of mahogany. Everything was of the best and little the worse for wear, but over everything was the gloom of the murdered sunlight, filtering in through the filthy skylight and the grimy portholes. Hank opened the door of the after cabin.
“Pretty musty, ain’t it?” said Jake. “I kyan’t get it right, nohow. You could grow mushrooms on that bunk with the damp, though where it comes from, search me. Ain’t sea damp, it’s damp that seems to have got in the wood. The wood sweats when the weather’s a bit warm. Smells like an old cheese.”
“Well, I ain’t buying a scent factory,” said Hank.
“Oh, buyin’ her, are you?” said Jake, “buyin’ her.” He said nothing more, but followed as Hank led the way out of the saloon. They inspected the lavatory and bath, the galley, and then they came to the auxiliary engine, for the Wear Jack boasted an auxiliary engine, a neat little Kelvin paraffin engine in a canvas jacket.