"Against orders."
Just then, and before the young newsgatherer could vent his indignation further a cab came rattling up the dock and disgorged at the foot of the Northerner's gangplank three brightfaced, happy-looking lads. They were Tom and Jack Dacre and their inseparable chum, Sandy MacTavish, the voluble Scotch youth whose "thatch" and freckles gave him his nickname. Jack was Tom's junior by two years, but he was almost as muscular and tall as his brother. Both lads were nephews of Mr. Dacre, who had given them their home in the Sawmill Valley of Maine where they had acquired the name of "Bungalow Boys," by which they were known to a large circle of friends.
Tom Jessop turned from the captain to the new arrivals.
"Where is this vessel bound?" he asked.
"She clears this afternoon for Alaska," responded Tom Dacre.
The reporter's eye flashed a look of triumph upward at the bridge.
"In the northern trade?" he asked.
"I didn't say that," was the quiet rejoinder.
Tom Jessop began to get mad in good earnest. He swept his eyes over the ship's decks. Amidships she carried an odd-looking pile of timber and metal.
"A small steamer in sections, eh?" he questioned with a knowing look.