“My lads,” said I, “we need not look forward to a very good voyage, for you have doubtless discovered already that the Gladys H. is not a greyhound. To be honest with you, she’s old and leaky, and none too safe. But she’s got a valuable cargo aboard, that must be safe delivered if we can manage it, and we are all of us well paid to do our duty by the owners. My instructions are to hug the land and make a harbor if bad weather comes. At the worst we can run the ship on the shingle and save the cargo in that way—for the cargo is worth a dozen such tubs. It’s a somewhat risky undertaking, I know, and if any of you don’t like your berths I’ll put you ashore at the first likely place and you can go home again. But if you are willing to stick to me, I’ll take as good care of you as I can, and your money is sure because the Interocean Forwarding Company is back of us and good for every penny. What do you say, my lads?”
They were a good-natured lot, and appreciated my frankness. After a little conference together the boatswain declared they were all content to see the venture to the end and do the best they could under the circumstances. So a mutual understanding was established from the beginning, and before the end came I had cause to be proud of every man aboard.
The weather was warm and pleasant, and as I sat with our passengers and Ned on the deck in the afternoon Uncle Naboth got his eye on the overgrown grocery package and said to Moit:
“What sort of an automobile have you got?”
The man had been dreaming, but he gave a start and his eyes lighted with sudden interest. The abstracted mood disappeared.
“It is one of my own invention, sir,” he replied.
“What do you call it?”
“The Moit Convertible Automobile.”
“Heh? Convertible?”
“Yes, sir.”