Getting the Pequot Queen into her new berth was far more difficult than persuading her to leave her old home. She had to be taken past the sunken canal-boat without running her bow on the bottom, and that task required patience and ingenuity. But Brose Wilkins was equal to it, and finally, after much tugging and swinging and shoving—the Pequot Queen’s steering apparatus was no longer of use—the battered old craft was lying against the short stretch of bulkhead. That her rail smashed off the upper plank of the bulkhead was immaterial, since it allowed her to get a few inches nearer. That the boys had neglected to bring anything to tie the boat up with complicated matters at first. They had not brought the old hawsers along since they had been uncertain whether they had been the property of the boat’s former owners or of the quarry company. In any case, those rotted ropes would have been of only temporary use. Laurie offered to run over to a store and get some new line, but Brose vetoed that suggestion.
“You fellers hold her here a few minutes,” he said. “We’ve got some second-hand stuff over in the shed that’ll do fine and won’t cost you but a few cents. All we need is about thirty feet at each end.” He chugged off, leaving the boys sitting on the rail of the boat with their legs dangling over the bulkhead planking. The Pequot Queen showed no desire to leave her new home. In fact, she seemed more desirous of pushing her way right up on the beach, and Laurie audibly wondered whether they hadn’t better somehow strengthen the bulkhead.
“I guess she’ll be all right when she’s once tied up,” said Bob. “We’ll ask the Wilkins chap when he comes back.”
Brose allayed their fears as he climbed aboard the Pequot Queen with a supply of thick hawser. “She won’t budge when we get her fixed,” he assured them. “Ease her off a bit while I stick these fenders over the side.” The fenders were two sausage-shaped canvas bags attached to short lengths of cord, and he inserted them between bulkhead and boat about ten feet apart, making the free ends of the cords fast under the low rail. “They won’t cost you anything,” he said. “They’re worn out. All right for this job, though. Now let’s see.”
Ten minutes later the Pequot Queen was fast, bow and stern, the worn but still serviceable hawsers securely tied to two spiles. “There,” said Brose. “She’ll stay put till the Yankees win the World’s Championship, fellers!”
“We’re awfully much obliged to you,” said Laurie gratefully. “You’ve been mighty decent. Now, how much is it, rope and all?”
“Two dollars and seventy-five cents,” answered Brose. “But I’ll throw off the seventy-five cents if you’ll tell me what in the name of Old Joe Barnes you’re aiming to do with her now you’ve got her!”
Laurie questioned Bob silently, and, because they had taken a sudden and immense liking to the queer, loose-jointed, red-haired Brose, Bob nodded. So Laurie told him the whole story, and Brose Wilkins’s eyes opened wide and his broad smile threatened to jostle his ears while he listened. Once or twice he chuckled, too. And when Laurie had finished he laughed until tears stood in his gray eyes. Laurie frowned then. He supposed it did sound rather funny, but Brose’s laughter lasted too long. It wasn’t that funny! Then, just when Laurie was forming a stinging rebuke in his mind, Brose wiped his streaming eyes with a sleeve of his old brown sweater and became coherent. He had previously attempted without success to speak.
“Well, if that don’t beat the Cubs!” he gasped. “I got to hand it to you fellers for using the old bean! And, say, what about Miss Pansy, eh? Ain’t she running true to form? I’ll say she is! You can’t beat that little woman, fellers. She’s plucky, she is! Think of her living down here all by her lonesome, and tickled to do it because she’s on a boat! Funny, eh? And sporting, too, eh? She’s a wonder, Miss Pansy is!”
“You know her then?” asked Laurie, mollified.