“But such an attitude is extraordinary, Captain Bent!”
The captain took his time in consuming a bit of chilled cantaloupe.
“Sir,” persisted the official, “our department was long ago informed of your request that the service of this cutter be confined to salvage work, ice patrol and so forth. Now, we⸺”
“Just a moment, if you please. You are informed correctly. The Arrowsic with her thirteen knots top speed, chasing booze speed boats, would be distinctly humorous. I am not a humorist. Salvage is my specialty. A vessel on reefs, or disabled, does not try to run away,” he commented dryly. Then he pressed the buzzer and the executive popped in. “Mr. Todd, relieve the master-at-arms. Deliver at once custody of salvage to this gentleman.” He turned to the official. “Salvage—simply salvage, sir. Within two minutes it will be left unguarded, unless you hurry.”
The prohibition man hurried—and Captain Bent peacefully enjoyed his breakfast.
An hour or so later the Arrowsic halted abreast the anchored Harvest Home and Captain Bent was conveyed aboard the schooner in his gig.
Captain Coombs was pacing the quarter-deck, conning the work of his men, who were busy with the tangle of the fore hamper. They tussled nimbly, showing the recuperative power of sleep and remorse.
The visitor swung a glance aloft; then he smiled with full understanding of sailor nature, winking at Captain Coombs.
The two walked into the lee alley and leaned against the house.
“Not troubling you with petty details, Captain Coombs, I’m merely saying that regulations have been stretched a bit and nothing now lies against you or your schooner. I’m mighty sorry that you’re losing your freight money.”