“Well,” began the mate, dubiously.
“You’ll be disrated if you don’t use more intelligence,” snapped the skipper. “What are shovels for but to dig with?”
“Yes, but—” began George.
“But what?”
“Well, if you got her afloat she’d only sink. Her timbers will all be rotten.”
“Show me a rotten timber!” said Jack. “I don’t mean these planks that have got broken on deck. I mean in the hull. She’s as sound as a bell. A boat like this would take years and years to rot. She’d need some calking, I guess, but that’s what I engaged you for, isn’t it?—while I sit in my deck chair and give orders. George, honestly, I believe it could be done.”
“But she isn’t yours to float,” parried the mate, “nor to use after you get her afloat.”
“That’s true,” agreed the skipper, frowning. “But you have got a way of raising difficulties since I signed you on. Who does she belong to?”
“She used to belong to Mr. Farnham,” replied George. “He’s a New York man with pots of money, who lives over on the Point in the summer. The sloop was in my father’s boat-yard for repairs the summer before she broke away and got stranded here.”
“Well, do you suppose he wants her? I don’t believe so.”