“By the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, you're on!” Cappy Ricks almost yelled. “Put up or shut up—that is, provided Joey is as big a sport as his father and will undertake to sail my schooner Tyee to Sobre Vista and back.”
“Oh, she's a schooner!” There was relief in Joey's voice. “Why, I'll sail any vessel with a fore-and-aft rig. I thought perhaps you were trying to ring in a square-rigger on me, and I'm not familiar with them. But a schooner—pooh! Pie for little Joey!”
“She's got three legs, and with a deck-load of lumber she's cranky and topheavy. I'm warning you, Joey. Remember he is a poor ship owner who doesn't know his own ship.”
Joey got up and went to a map laid out on a table, with a piece of plate glass over it, to compute the sailing distance from Gray's Harbor to Sobre Vista. He could not find Sobre Vista on the map.
“Figure the distance to Mollendo and you'll be close enough for all practical purposes,” Cappy called to him, and winked at the boy's father. “A little pep, here, boy,” he whispered to Gurney, “and we'll snare him yet.”
Joey came back from his study of the map.
“I'd have the nor'west trades clear to the Line,” he remarked to his father. “After that I'd be liable to bang round for a couple of weeks in the doldrums, but in spite of that—did you say I couldn't do it in six months, Mr. Ricks?”
“That's what I said, Joey.”
“Take the bet, dad,” said Joey quietly, “and I'll take half of it off your hands. I'll give you my note, secured by an assignment of a twenty-five-thousand-dollar interest in mother's estate to secure you in case Mr. Ricks should win and call you for his winnings—but he hasn't a chance in the world.”
“Money talks,” Cappy Ricks warned him and got out his check book. “Joe, I'll make a check in your favor for fifty thousand dollars and you make one in my favor for the same amount. We will then deposit both checks with the secretary of the club, who will act as stakeholder—”