“Not likely,” answered Joe. “But what’s the use of worrying? I’m going to put it right out of my mind for the present. I’ve got to pitch this afternoon and I’m not going to think of anything else.”
True to his nefarious promise, Connelly, at just about the same time that morning, was having a private conversation with the captain of a tramp ship that was lying at a wharf far down on the Boston harbor front.
The tramp was a battered, rusty-looking old hooker that seemed to be about as tough and disreputable looking as the skipper, who was shouting orders to his crew when Connelly came on board.
There was a mutual recognition.
“How are you, Mr. Connelly?” the captain said, as he came forward to greet the newcomer. “And what is it that’s bringing you so far from Chicago?”
“How are you, Captain Hennessy?” returned Connelly, cordially grasping the gnarled hand that was extended to him. “I happened to be in town on business and I heard you were loading up here. How’s the carrying trade just now?”
“None too good,” replied the skipper. “What with freights ’way down and the competition of the big liners, it’s all we can do to make a living these days. But come down to the cabin and wet your whistle. Talking’s dry business.”
Connelly needed no urging, and they were soon seated at a table in the cramped cabin, with a bottle and glasses between them.
They talked of indifferent matters for a time, and then Connelly broached the object of his visit.
“Where are you going this trip?” he asked.