He saw the name on her stern as they approached—Albatross—and even that pleased him. The yacht was a trim craft, narrow enough in beam to indicate speed, with a high bow to take a heavy sea well, and long enough to afford plenty of room, while her breadth was not such as to make her too much of a roller, or wallower, in the trough of the sea.
Two slender masts, for auxiliary sails, and for signal flags, with the conductors of a wireless apparatus strung between them, rose fore and aft of a buff-colored funnel, rakishly set. In short, the yacht was a beauty.
"On board the Albatross!" called Mr. Blake, when they were within hailing distance.
"Aye, aye, sir," answered the old sea dog, pulling at his cap.
"I understand that yacht is for sale," went on the lawyer, for, on consulting a list he had, he saw that she was among those he had put down to examine.
"She might be, if any one had the money," replied the old sailor, stuffing his thumb into the bowl of his pipe, to tamp down the tobacco.
"Well, I have the money," spoke Dick, quickly.
"Then come aboard, if you please, sir," was the more genial reply, and the old man walked forward to where an accommodation ladder was suspended, and lowered it.
The young millionaire observed that the old sailor walked with a limp, and he at once made up his mind that he had a wooden leg. This diagnosis was confirmed when Dick and Mr. Blake stepped on deck a few seconds later.