“Oh, no, sir,” Sandy rushed on, embarrassed. “Nothing of the kind. I don’t even know him, Dad—except by sight. And I’ve heard Mr. Kennedy himself say that Captain West was a very fine skipper.”
“He is that,” Sandy’s father said, relaxing. “I guess I misunderstood you, son.”
“Anyway,” Jerry James put in, “it will all be in the newspapers, won’t it, Mr. Steele?”
“Not exactly, Jerry. You see, these things take weeks, even after you’ve made your initial discovery. Not that I’m not certain of these deposits. Far from it! I’ve never been more so. But there is always a certain amount of time before a report is properly nailed down—firmly enough for the newspapers to print it, that is.”
“But what you’ve discovered today, Dad—that’s enough to make Mr. Kennedy change his mind about selling?”
“It certainly is!”
“Good,” Sandy said. Then, laying down his knife and fork, he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He brushed back his cowlick and looked sorrowfully at the slice of roast beef remaining on his plate.
“Honestly,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve got room for another single ounce.”
“Well, well,” Jerry James said, apologetically, as he reached over and speared the morsel with his fork. “I think that I just might be able to handle it.”
The unbelievably long silhouette of the James Kennedy lay long and dark like a great sea serpent against the looming bulk of the ore dock as Sandy Steele and Jerry James returned to the lake shore. They carried suitcases in which they had hurriedly stuffed the few things they’d be needing for shipboard life. Each had put in soap and comb and toothpaste and toothbrushes and two sets of dungarees for working hours, plus a good pair of slacks and a sport shirt for those days when they hoped to go ashore in Great Lakes ports like Detroit or Cleveland.