“That there front cylinder’s missin’ agin, Skippy,” he shouted. “Loop ’er in that there ring; the tide’s runnin’ out now so she’ll stand upstream. Set ’er even ’n’ come aboard here.”
The boy nodded obediently and with an end of rope fastened the old tiller to a rusty ring. Then, hurrying forward, he jumped into the water and grasping the taut tow line, pulled himself hand over hand and scrambled over the stern of the launch.
The father put out a large, work-worn hand and helped him in with a tenderness that was surprising in one so rough and uncouth looking.
“Gimme that there shirt and them shoes while I hang ’em near the engine,” he said, his voice soft with affection. “Ye’ll be gettin’ a bad throat agin.” He made no demand for the boy’s trousers, which were the only other article of apparel that the little fellow wore.
Having spread the clothing to dry and adjusted the rebellious motor, the man returned to the stern. He relighted his pipe and sat down with an arm about his son.
“I’ll steer her fer a while, Pop,” said Skippy.
For a few minutes there was silence.
“Yer glad we’re goin’ straight?” the man asked with a sudden move of his arm on the boy’s shoulder.
Skippy’s eyes widened and he looked up at his parent, hesitantly.
“I mean yer glad we’re goin’ straight—in a straight racket, I mean? Now there ain’t goin’ to be no more worry about coppers. I won’t care if they’re floatin’ all over the harbor an’ I won’t be worryin’ about no pinches. A man don’t ever think uv bein’ pinched when his racket’s on the up and up. An’ that’s me from now on. I said when I got three hunderd saved I’d buy a barge an’ not touch no more shady rackets. An’ I have! Three hunderd—every penny we had in the world, sonny, I paid Josiah Flint fer the Minnie M. Baxter. She’s worth every dime uv it.”