“Don’t you understand?” exclaimed Tom. “We’ve saved this craft. We’re going to land her safely in port, and then—”
“The court’ll give us a good part of her value as salvage,” concluded Mac. “We’ve earned it, and we’re all a goin’ to be rich.”
The opening of the club house would have to be postponed a week. Breakfast was cooked, the captain and the cargo owner made as comfortable as possible—the latter also being notified of the program of his rescuers—fire was started to provide steam for the pump, and then an examination was made of the cargo.
The boys did not ask Mr. Hawkins the value of his freight, and he volunteered no information. But, whatever its value, the entire hold was packed with squared mahogany logs. There were also a few other logs of lesser size.
“This stuff is worth a good deal, isn’t it?” asked Bob, as the boys surveyed the heavy, curiously marked logs.
“That depends,” answered Mac—wise in all things pertaining to shipping or the sea trade of Pensacola. “If these sticks came from Central America, they ain’t so much. I’ve seen mahogany ’at didn’t bring more’n ten dollars a log. Wa’n’t wuth much more’n cedar. But,” and he closed an eye, “ef they’s San Domingo logs, an’ the geezer ’at owns ’em says they is, I seen one o’ that kind sell right on the dock in Pensacola fur a thousan’ bones. Them thousand dollar boys is what they shave up fur veneer—all curly and wriggly.”
“A thousand dollars apiece?” exclaimed Hal.
“I ain’t sayin’ that,” explained the knowing Mac, “but even ef they’s one ur two o’ that sort in the bunch, we ain’t been workin’ fur nothin’.”
“Do you mean to say,” broke in Bob, “that whoever owns this boat and the man ’at owns these logs has to pay us the price o’ them for savin’ ’em?”