“What for?” asked George, with a grin.
“You shipped on this vessel as a fully qualified mate and highly skilled carpenter. You heard what your own father said about you.”
“Well, sir, I needed the money,” pleaded George.
“This company is run on business lines, Mr. Mate,” declared the captain. “You’ll either learn to do your share of carpentering right now or I’ll sue you for false pretenses.”
“Please, sir, when I go across in the ferry as mate do I have to pay ten cents fare, too?” asked George.
“Silence!—or I’ll clap you in irons!” roared the skipper. “Come on, and use your head. I’ve never made a cleat in my life, and I suspect you know more about that sort of thing than I do. Let’s make a start.”
Two or three short pieces of oak were found in the boat-shed, and after the third or fourth attempt the boys managed to fashion sufficient serviceable cleats to replace those which had been broken. The rail also was repaired, although Tony’s professional opinion of the way that job had been done was not startlingly complimentary.
“It looks like a piece of George’s work,” he said. “Now, ’fess up, who did it?”
“We’re both guilty,” explained Jack.