"Your name is Lem Higgins?" asked the old man sharply.
"That's what they usually say when they want me," responded Lem. "Do you want me?"
"We want your boat."
Lem's eyes lightened. Fishing had been poor, and perhaps here was a chance to make some easy money. He scrambled to his feet, showing unusual animation.
"You want my boat? You want ter hire her, you mean?"
"Yes. What's your figure?"
The old man was doing all the talking now. His tall companion stood silently by. At his side was the black bag, which he had deposited on the ground with the same curious care that had marked all his dealings with the mysterious article.
Lem ruminated a minute, looked seaward, ejected a small fountain of tobacco juice, and then asked, with his head cocked on one side:
"Where might you be a-goin'?"
"Never mind that, my friend. That is none of your business."