“Same thing holds good for me, I suppose. I don't feel like going to the city just yet.”
Captain Sinnett came rolling into the alley, and when Mayo started to thank him for the trouble he was taking he raised in genial protest a hand which resembled in spread a split codfish.
“Trouble! It ain't trouble. Was going to call into Maquoit to ice up, anyway. I know my manners even if them yachting fellows didn't.”
Captain Candage preserved the demeanor of innocence under Mayo's scrutiny.
“I've missed you off the fishing-grounds—didn't know you had gone on to a yacht, sir,” pursued Captain Sinnett. “Hope to see you back into the fishing business again; that is, providing you don't go on one of them beam trawlers that are hooking up the bottom of the Atlantic and sp'iling the thing entire for us all.”
“I agree with you about the trawler; that's why I quit. And as to yachting, I think I'll go after a real man's job, sir!”
“So do! You'll be contenteder,” replied the other, significance in his tones.
Mayo knew that his secret had been exposed, but he had no relish for an argument with Captain Candage on the subject of garrulity. He finished his coffee and went forward where the fishermen were coiling the gang-lines into the tubs.
The fisherman made port at Maquoit late in the afternoon, and was warped to her berth at the ice-house wharf.
The castaways went ashore.