It was a moment in Goodchurch’s official life when the human element in him was uppermost. He sat turned away from his desk, lounging in his swivel chair, talking to the engineer and smoking a cigar, the latter a most unusual proceeding in his working hours. McLagan was overflowing a smaller bare wood chair opposite him, and he, too, was smoking one of the Commissioner’s best cigars.
The strong face of Goodchurch was smiling pleasantly, and his keen grey eyes had lost their usual cold stare which had taken him years to cultivate. He shook his head.
“There’s no such darn vessel registered at Boston,” he said. “And there’s no owner yearning to claim anything with a name like the Limpet. That doesn’t leave me guessing. There’s such a thing as insurance. In a while, maybe, we’ll be getting word from some underwriting house. Then the fur’ll fly, and some one’ll be squealing in the Courts. Anyway, the position’s clear. Boston’s never heard of the Limpet and isn’t yearning to.”
McLagan removed his cigar and flicked the ash into an immaculate cuspidor. His narrow eyes surveyed the neat apartment which gave some indication of the man who presided there. It was Goodchurch’s private room in the best commercial block in Beacon which was more than half given up to his staff. He knew well enough the range of this man’s work. It was from the highest to the lowest in the realms of the city’s discipline. And for all the man’s capacity, McLagan felt like smiling at the thought of the net result of his labours.
However, his concern at the moment lay in other directions. This was his last visit to Beacon before setting out on a prolonged exploration into the hills, and he desired the Commissioner’s valuable aid in a direction in which he knew he could rely on it.
He nodded.
“That’s pretty clear,” he said. “What next?”
Goodchurch shook his head.
“There don’t seem to be much to be done—next,” he said thoughtfully. “After all, what is it? A windjammer blows in on to the rocks of this abominable coast. You reckon she’s mostly a cargo of lumber aboard. Well, lumber’s no sort of use on this coast.” He smiled. “Gold’s the only thing, or oil, that’s going to set our folks whooping. There don’t seem to be a soul yearning to claim that craft. Even the folks who quit her.” He shook his head again. “No. There’s not a thing worth doing but what I’ve done. My report’s gone in. That’s usual. I guess I can send a couple of boys down to view things, but if we know anything of the seas beating on this coast line, the storms that drove her on the rocks are liable to hammer her to matchwood in a month or so. And then there’ll be nothing—more.”