“Why, hello, Jim Prentice!” exclaimed Hank, recognizing in the other a former fireman of the Illinois, “how goes it?”
“Pretty well, shipmate, but low water here,” said the other, tapping his pocket suggestively. “Can you loan a fellow a few dimes?”
“Loan!” exclaimed Hank, not best pleased at this encounter, “why, it may be months before I see you again. You’re going to sea soon, aren’t you?”
He glanced toward where the other had been sitting and noted a battered telescope grip reposing beside his vacant chair.
“Yes, and a fine old tea-kettle of a stoke hole I’m assigned to. Aboard the Beale, that destroyer, you know. To make matters worse, we’re for South America, I hear. It’ll fairly roast a man to work under forced draught in that climate.”
“The Beale, eh?” mused Hank. “That’s the craft those two fellows are assigned to.”
He said this in a low voice, and it escaped the other’s hearing altogether. Presently he added aloud:
“When do you sail?”
“Some time to-morrow. Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just curious, that’s all. So you need money, Jim?”