Captain Coombs brought his gaze down and winked a puckered eye with queer solemnity. “Edzackly!” he admitted. It was Yankee reserve, its laconic style extra copper-riveted by mariner stolidity.
Captain Bent went brusquely back to the business of day and date. “Sir, we’ll lay off grappling in muddy waters. We’ll tackle present concerns. In a friendly way, however—if I did put too much steam behind that punch.”
Captain Coombs snorted and tossed his hand, dismissing the subject. “Oh, hell! That’s only the style of seafaring men understanding each other. Much obleeged for your help in getting the hatch open on the cargo of gab I’m carrying. Sir, you can size me up pretty well, seeing the hooker I’m skippering. Cap’n Bent, I’ve come down awfully in the world.” It was said with a quaver in the tones.
The old man obeyed the younger captain’s gesture and slumped into a chair beside the table.
“Yes, I have sized you up, Captain Coombs. Your actions have been enough for me. Your packet has a cargo of hooch.”
The other nodded with hopeless chin sag. “Thanks! I’m saved that much gab.”
“But I want you to say something about it,” commanded Bent, his eyes narrowing.
“My story won’t be believed in court. Telling it to a coast-guarder will only be like hooting into an empty scuttlebutt.”
“But not in the case of this coast-guarder, sir. Captain Coombs, I knew you before I was a coast-guarder. Your ship was always teetotally dry. You hated liquor.”
“Aye, and the older I’ve growed, the wuss I’ve hated the stuff. But tow me in. Hand me over. Land me in court. When I’m on the stand I’ll work myself into one of my dumb fits so I can’t yip a word. I’d ruther be lampblacked as a pirut than whitewashed as a damnation boob. I have come down in the world, sir, but I’ve been hanging onto some certain things in a master mariner’s pride. I can go through with being a jailbird, but I’ll be cussed if I can live up under being a standing joke along this coast for the rest of my life.”