“That's all she's good for now, Mr. Ricks. She has had her day in the lumber trade; the steam schooners have relegated her to a final resting place in the ooze of Oakland Inner Harbor; her class of windjammers is a thing of the past for general cargo. She's been laid up now for three years. True, her bottom is coppered and you dry-dock her every year; but that's an expense. And then you must consider taxes and depreciation, and sooner or later, if she lies in the mud long enough, the Teredo will eat her up; so it occurred to me that you might be glad to sell. She was built in 1883, but she was built to last—”
“Never built a cheap ship in my life and never ran 'em cheap,” Cappy challenged proudly. “The Ethel Ricks is in the discard, but she's as sound a little packet as you'll find anywhere. She's had the best of care. The same is true of the Harpoon and the Nukahiva.”
“What do you want for her?”
“Four thousand dollars,” Cappy answered promptly.
“I was offered the Dandelion for three thousand; she's ten years younger than the Ethel Ricks and in very good condition. Sorry, but I guess you'll have to keep the Ethel—and let me tell you, the longer you keep her the less she's worth. However, I guess she doesn't owe you anything.”
“No; she paid for herself more'n twice,” Cappy replied.
“Then if you get three thousand for her it's like finding the money and losing a worry.”
“Sold!” said Cappy.
“I didn't say I'd buy,” Matt warned him. “What do you want for the Harpoon and the Nukahiva?”
“They're all sister ships. Three thousand each.”