Nor was it theirs to wonder why it seemed essential that a cargo of canned clams must be piled out under cover of night. The job was dispatched and its completion was reported aft.
Captain Bent received the report after he had retired to his berth. “Thank you, Mr. Todd. Order out our two motor sailers and tow that schooner to the lower harbor for anchorage. By the way, her anchors are at Popham. Put aboard her one of our spare killicks, with cable.”
The commander spoke again before the executive was out of hearing. “Give my respects to Captain Coombs. Inform him that I’ll come aboard the Harvest Home some time before noon.”
Turning to an easier position on his mattress, Captain Bent murmured the clipper name several times before he dropped off into slumber.
At eight bells, forenoon watch, an important gentleman arrived aboard the Arrowsic. His visit was the result of a telephone call. The officer of the deck escorted the visitor aft and ushered him into the presence of the commander, who was surveying breakfast viands which a mess boy was arranging on the table.
Captain Bent, as chilly as the ice lump which he dumped out of a halved cantaloupe, broke in on the visitor’s apologies for intrusion at meal hour. “I left orders to have you shown aft on your arrival, sir. You noted a stack of cases, I presume, walking past them on your way down the wharf?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hard liquor in them, canned under clam labels. Poor judgment, of course, putting whisky in tin—but it’s all poor judgment in the booze business these days. Kindly check up on the stuff and pass me a receipt.”
The gentleman purred compliments on the efficiency of the coast guard. He disclosed a badge when he pushed aside the lapel of his coat to get at his official blanks. “Merely the formalities of proper record, Captain Bent! Name of carrier and the master. Circumstances of capture and⸺”
“I have no official information for you, sir, on those points.”