“Here, John,” he said grandly, passing the document across the table. “Now, you sign right there. And, then, the Kennedy boats will belong to me.”
“I think not, Paul,” Mr. Kennedy said easily as he accepted the papers and tore them swiftly in two. “I think they’ll still belong to me.”
He handed the torn contract back to his astounded shipping rival. Mr. Chadwick stared at the pieces in disbelief.
“But this is preposterous!” he shouted. “You can’t do this to me! You agreed to sell, Kennedy. Why, why,” he spluttered, his cheeks puffing out like a frog’s, “why, I’ll sue!”
“Go ahead, Paul,” Mr. Kennedy said, getting to his feet. “And, by the way, you may be getting busy soon, shipping all that new, high-grade ore down from the Mesabi—as I expect to—and you may find yourself in need of a skipper or a mate.” He smiled. “I know just the men for you, Paul. Fine, dependable men—men like Captain West or Mr. Briggs.”
A shadow of dismay passed over Mr. Chadwick’s pale eyes. Without a word, he jumped to his feet and hurried from the room.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Safe in Port
That night, under a star-dusted sky, with the lights of Buffalo to guide her and beckon her on, the battered James Kennedy limped into port.
And waiting to greet her, in addition to her owner and his personal physician, was a throng of chattering newspaper reporters and photographers. The tale of the James Kennedy’s ordeal at sea had preceded her. Even as the vessel was slowly warped into her berth, photographers raced alongside her in excitement-eagerly snapping pictures of her damaged superstructure with its wrecked pilothouse. The flashing of their light bulbs added to the general air of excitement.
The moment the ship was securely in port, the newspapermen came hurrying up the gangplank.