They drew up in Malcolm Street close to the wharves.
“Take her back,” said George to the chauffeur, “and tell Farintosh to come along at half-past twelve with enough sandwiches for two and a bottle of—Oh, damn—two bottles of lemonade. You can drink lemonade, Hank?”
“Sure.”
“Tell him he’ll find me in the yacht that’s moored at Sullivan’s wharf. It’s close to this place, he can’t mistake.”
The car drove off, and they started for the water side, Hank carrying the bundle.
CHAPTER VII
THE FIRING OF JAKE
THE street was blazing with the morning light, and, turning a corner, a puff of wind from the bay hit George in the face. It carried with it a scent of tar, oakum and bilge, and it was like the breath of the great god Adventure himself, the god of morning and unknown places and strange happenings.