“Yeh—he’s my pal—which way was he goin’?”
“He was making along towards the union dock.”
Silence. The companion way creaked and Hank reappeared standing in the cabin doorway.
“Well,” said Hank, “that’s done. I’d no sooner got on deck than a fellow with a patch on his eye came along with kind inquiries. I’ve sent him along. Now I must ask you for your visiting card—and explanations.”
The stranger laughed.
“Candon’s my name,” said he. “Bob Candon. I’ll take a seat for a minute, if you don’t mind, to get my wits together. I only blew in yesterday afternoon, came up from S’uthard and anchored off Tiburon and first news I had when I got ashore was about you and the Dutchman.”
“What was your ship?” cut in Hank.
“Heart of Ireland, thirty-ton schooner, owned and run by Pat McGinnis, last port—” Candon cut himself short. “That would be telling,” said he, with a laugh.
Hank handed him a cigarette and lit another.