“There’s Pet Salt,” he said. “She might do much.”
“Pet Salt?” Dick turned to him quickly. “Who’s she?”
Blueneck told the story of his night on Ben Farran’s boat with as much credit to himself as was possible.
Dick listened in silence until he had finished; then he rose to his feet.
“I will go to see this crone,” he said grandiloquently. “Lead me, dog!”
Pet Salt sat on the deck of her boat mending a net. She was mumbling to herself, and her old knotted finger-joints cracked as she fumbled about with the rough twine she was using. Beneath the hatches she could hear old Ben swearing loudly as he hunted among the empty rum kegs for one that still contained a little of the precious stuff. To judge from his language he had been so far unsuccessful and the woman shifted uneasily as she sat thinking of the beating he would give her if he found nothing.
It was then that she heard a voice calling her from the beach.
“Pet Salt! Pet Salt!”
Noisily she scrambled to her feet and hobbled over to the side of the hull, and looked down.
Dick and his mate stood together staring up at her.