“Yep!” answered the lad, not a bit abashed. “I was here when dad gave the order—he’s training me for the game, you know—and I trotted on down to see ’em start, and——”
“You like the water—know boats? Most boys do. Eh, what?”
Young Hallins grinned.
“Hear that, dad?” he cried. “Me like boats, eh?”.
“The boy’s crazy,” explained Hallins, regaining his composure somewhat. “He’s got the fastest thing in the harbor—built it himself, too.” The proud parent showed here.
“She’s good for twenty-five an hour flat,” boasted the youth.
“Where is that boat now?” barked out Pawlinson, and then I caught his drift.
“Down at the float. Old Pete looks out for her for me.”
“What’s she worth?” snapped Pawlinson. “Don’t be afraid to make it high, my boy. Washington’s paying for her. I’ve got to have her.’
“Don’t want to sell her,” came the reply, in as sharp a decision as Pawlinson’s own. “But you can have her to use on that kind of lay for nothing.”