Says she, “You lime-juice sailor,
Now see me home you may.”
But when we reached her cottage door
She unto me did say—
And a-way, you santee,
My dear Annie!
O you New York girls,
Can't you dance the polka!
—Walking Down the Broadway.
Mayo was promptly informed that Captain Downs and the crew of the Alden were safe.
“He caught our flare, got his motor to working, and made the inlet by a lucky stab,” explained the coast-station captain. “But he didn't reckon he'd ever see you folks again. How did it happen he didn't tell me there was a woman aboard?”
“You'll have to ask him.”
“Who is she?”
“You'll have to ask him that, too. I'm only a sailor.”
The captain looked him over with considerable suspicion: His shirt was torn and his white skin was revealed. The drenching by rain and spray had played havoc with his disguise; most of the coloring had been washed away.
“Have you got anything special to say about yourself?”
“No, sir.”
The captain turned his back on his men and leaned close to Mayo. “They have had your picture in the paper this week,” he said. “You're the captain they are wanting in that Montana case. They're after you. I've got to report on this thing, you understand!”