Without paying much attention to the disturber, Captain Candage had been a bit nettled during his meditation. A speed boat from one of the yachts kept circling the Polly, carrying a creaming smother of water under its upcocked bow. It was a noisy gnat of a boat and it kicked a contemptuous wake against the rust-streaked old wagon.
When it swept under the counter, after Captain Candage was back on his quarter-deck, he gave it a stare over the rail, and his expression was distinctly unamiable.
“They probably wasted more money on that doostra-bulus than this schooner would sell for in the market today,” he informed Otie.
“They don't care how money goes so long as they didn't have to sweat earning it. Slinging it like they'd sling beans!”
Back on its circling course swished the darting tender. This time the purring motor whined into silence and the boat came drifting alongside.
“On board Polly!” hailed one of the yachtsmen, a man with owner's insignia on his cap.
The master of the old schooner stuck his lowering visage farther over the rail, but he did not reply.
“Isn't this Polly the real one?”
“No, it's only a chromo painting of it.”
“Thank you! You're a gentleman!” snapped the yachtsman.