“Register this, please. And don’t give it to any other than Clayton Randolph—not even to anyone authorized to receive his mail.”
That business attended to, Tom Halstead paid three bills against the boat, then hurried back to the water front, after having set his precious chronometer back to exactly the right time. Again he took boat out to the yacht, and bounding up on deck, his face was wreathed in smiles.
“Old Chronom. is all right, now,” he called to Henry Tremaine, who was seated in one of the deck chairs, smoking. “Now, we’ll start, sir, just as soon as we can get the anchor up.”
Jeff, who had found time to run home to his mother and inform her of his great luck, lent a strong hand in the preliminaries to starting.
“Do yo’ reckon, Cap’n, yo’d let me pilot the ‘Restless’ out o’ this harbor and some o’ the way down the bay?”
“Go ahead,” smiled Captain Tom, who was feeling unusually contented, at last. “Enjoy yourself all you like, Jeff, until it’s time to go below and turn to preparing the evening meal.”
So Jeff Randolph stood proudly by the wheel as the “Restless” pointed her nose down Oyster Bay, over a smooth sea, on her way to that great Florida winter resort, Tampa.
After their rest the twin motors ran, as Joe phrased it, “as though made of grease.” Everybody aboard appeared to be unusually light-hearted.
“It’s a pleasure to cruise like this,” murmured Henry Tremaine, lighting a fresh cigar.
Jeff, happy over his new vocation, put all his lightest spirits into the preparation of the evening meal. As a guide he had had much experience with cookery. The meal went off delightfully.