“I do not admit it,” judicially replied Captain O’Shea. “I will not turn state’s evidence against meself.”
When they had perched themselves upon stools at the galley table the young man handed the skipper his card, which read:
“Mr. Gerald Ten Eyck Van Steen.”
The recipient eyed the card critically and commented:
“Dutch? I had a Dutchman as bos’n once and, saving your presence, he was an oakum-headed loafer. Now, how did ye come to be in these waters and whose yacht was it?”
Young Mr. Van Steen proceeded to explain.
“She was the Morning Star, owned by my father, the New York banker—the old house of Van Steen & Van Steen. You have heard of it, of course. He decided to take a winter holiday-trip and asked me to go along—that is to say, Miss Forbes and me. She is my fiancée——”
“You mean the young one. And she has signed on to marry you?” broke in Captain O’Shea with marked interest.
“Yes. She invited her aunt, Miss Hollister, to make the voyage as a sort of chaperon. We cruised to Barbadoes, where my father was called home on business and took a mail-steamer in a hurry. We jogged along in the Morning Star until her captain lost his bearings, or something of the kind, and you know the rest. We were ordered into a boat, but while waiting for an officer and more sailors a rain-squall came along—a nasty blow it was—and our boat broke loose, and we couldn’t get back to the yacht. The wind was dead against us.”
“The other boats will be picked up,” observed O’Shea. “You were lucky to have such an easy time of it. Now comes the rub. What am I going to do with ye?”