“Cousins of mine, I guess. Shucks, I was raised in Tobey Center, only thirty miles from Fairfield. I’m a hick from a rock-ribbed farm. It was the darned chores that made me run away, cows to milk and wood to chop and snow to shovel, and stone walls to break your back.”
“Shake hands on that,” grinned Captain Cary. “Is there such a place as New Hampshire on the map?”
“Gosh, you wouldn’t think so. It was never like this. Say, there can’t be two men like you on this coast. You must be the bird who got mad and cleaned up Cartagena a while ago. You sure did make yourself hard to find. This looks like a nice get-away for you. I’m not butting in on your affairs, am I?”
“Not a bit, Charlie Burnham. I’m the bird. Now tell me about this unholy old hooker. What have you got for a black gang?”
“Two assistants. That’s what they signed on as. Colombians. Eight nigger firemen and a couple of oilers. I can cuss in Spanish so we’re doing pretty well. Short-handed, but I couldn’t scrape up another damn man.”
“What about the deck force? Did Mr. Duff have any better luck?”
“Half a dozen black-and-tans, Indians and such. I guess I can steal one or two of ’em at a pinch.”
Charlie Burnham gulped another glass of water and fished a cigarette from a damp packet. He was eyeing the tall, fair-haired skipper with a certain grave concern. Cary noticed the change of manner and missed the brave twinkle. Something worried his valiant Yankee engineer.
“What’s on your mind, Charlie?” he asked. “You can’t be getting cold feet. It’s a great life if you keep calm. I’ll be glad to help you handle your crowd.”
“Oh, I can ride those ginks, Captain Cary. I got wise to their curves when I was running the ice plant at Barranquilla. But look here, I don’t want to be a false alarm, so don’t kid me. You may have a lively time getting this ship away. For one thing, this rummy of a chief officer has made no hit with me.”