Carefully supporting him on either side, for he found the unaccustomed crutches awkward, Captain Hamilton and Drew helped him on board the vessel and seated him comfortably in a deck chair.
Tyke drew in great draughts of the salt-laden air and his eyes glistened as he scrutinized the lines and spars of the schooner, noting her beauties with the expert eye of the sailor.
"Great little craft," he said approvingly. "I wouldn't have missed sailing on her for the world. A cruise in a tidy schooner like this will do me more good than them blamed doctors could if they fiddled around me for a year."
"How is your leg feeling now?" asked Drew solicitously.
"Better already," grinned Tyke. "In less'n a week I'll be chucking these crutches overboard. See if I don't."
Suddenly Tyke fell silent. Drew turned swiftly and saw that the old man was staring under bent brows at the mate of the schooner.
"Who's that?" Tyke finally demanded.
"That's Ditty—my mate," said Captain Hamilton. "I told you he was no handsome dog, didn't I?"
"Ugh!" grunted Tyke, and said no more.
Before Drew could ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue, a musical voice at his elbow said: