As Drew made his way through Beckwith's boat-shop half an hour later and stopped at the wide sliding doors at the rear, a large yawl was lying at the float. Three sailors sat on the thwarts, leaning forward with the characteristic rounded shoulders and relaxed look of idle seamen. Up the long plank walk from the boat hurried a tall, beardless young man of twenty-eight or thirty. He walked with a swinging gait, his shoulders were well back, and his face wore the look of one whose thoughts were pleasant.
He glanced from Drew to his baggage, then back to Drew again, and smiled, showing firm white teeth.
"Mr. Drew?" His voice suggested a query, but went on again immediately, without waiting for an answer: "Tumble in. The old man's gone aboard. He wouldn't wait."
He paused while Drew gathered up his baggage, but did not offer to assist. The American seaman is no burden-bearer for other men.
The sailors in the boat turned incurious faces as they heard the two draw near, then quickly rose and held the yawl to the float till they were seated in the stern-sheets. In silence the oarsmen then took their places, shipped their oars, and at Medbury's word sped away.
Drew looked at his watch as they pulled away from the float.
"It's not yet the hour Captain March set for leaving," he said. "I hope I did not misunderstand it."
"Oh, that's the old man's way," replied the other, lightly. "Now that he's really off, he can't hurry fast enough—had to get Myron to take him out in a sailboat while I was to wait for you."
"Are you a Blackwater man?" asked Drew, later.
"Born here, and my father and grandfather before me. I guess that makes me a Blackwater man, all right. My name's Medbury. You know my mother; she goes to your church."