They had disposed of Old Faithful easily enough. Sandy’s father had been pleased to take charge of Jerry’s jalopy while they were gone. It was just what he needed for the short trips between his field shack and the ore borings.
As the two friends walked up the James Kennedy’s ramp, their feet were dragging just a trifle. They had had a long and eventful day, and they were tired. When they stepped on deck, Jerry lost his balance and stumbled. Sandy had to shoot out an arm to keep him from falling. Suddenly, out of the dark, a voice growled, “Late, ain’cha?”
Sandy stopped dead, his hand still grasping Jerry’s arm. He heard a low snicker, and then the voice said, “Jumpy, too, ain’cha?”
“Well, no,” Sandy Steele said slowly, his eyes searching the darkness. “Where are you?”
“Over here.”
As their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the two youths made out the figure of a tall man seated on a canvas chair. He leaned back against the bulkhead and stared at them from unfriendly eyes.
“I guess you two are Ma Kennedy’s little chicks,” he sneered. “That right?”
Sandy Steele felt a quick rush of anger. But he controlled himself and said, “We’re the men Mr. Kennedy signed on, if that’s what you mean.” “Men!” The tall man slapped his feet on the deck and cackled. “‘Men,’ he says! Ain’t that a hot one?” He glared at them. “Which one of you’s named Steele?”
“I am,” Sandy said.
“Go down below and report to the skipper. He’s waiting for you. First deck down, first cabin to starboard.”