“The rascals! Good job you missed that boat. Christobal has been tellin’ me all about it. They’ve gone under.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Can’t see any chance for them, Miss Maxwell.”
“But we are almost as badly situated here?”
“Huh, not a bit of it. Lucky chap, Courtenay. He couldn’t lose a ship if he tried. She’d follow him ’cross country like that pup. Look at me: lost three, all brand new from the builders. One foundered, one burnt, an’ one stuck on the Goodwins. I’m careful, steady as any man can be, but no owner would trust me with a ship now, unless she was a back number, an’ over-insured. Even then my luck would follow me. I’d bring that sort of crazy old tub through the Northwest passage. So I’m first mate, an’ first mate I’ll remain till my ticket gives out.”
A good deal of this was Greek to Elsie. But she knew that Boyle was a man of curt speech, unless deck hands required the stimulus of a tongue lashing. Such a string of connected sentences was a rare occurrence. It argued that the “chief” was not unwilling to indulge in reminiscence.
“Why do you consider Captain Courtenay so fortunate?” she asked, flushing somewhat at the guile which lay behind the question.
“Huh,” snorted Boyle, amazed that even a slip of a girl should need informing on so obvious a fact. “Don’t you call it luck to be given command of a ship like the Kansas at his age? An’ to get five hundred pounds an’ a gold chronometer because the skipper of the Florida was too full to hold on to the bridge? You mark my words. He’ll be made commodore of the fleet after he pulls the Kansas out of this mess.”
“What happened to the Florida?”
“Haven’t you heard that yarn? Bless my soul, she was our crack ship. She broke her shaft in a gale, an’ the skipper was washed overboard—you always tell lies about deaders, you know—so A. C. just waded in an’ saved the whole outfit, passengers an’ all.”