“Got him, do you think?” inquired the other man, nodding toward Harvey.
“Looks promising.”
“My name is Jenkins,” continued Harvey’s companion; “and, as I was saying, I’m out of college for a year, earning the money to keep on. Don’t know as that interests you any—but never mind. What did you say? Queer rig, these boats have?”
“Why, yes, it strikes me so,” replied Harvey. “It looks odd to me to see big vessels like these with no gaffs and these leg-o’-mutton sails.”
Again the youth gave Harvey one of those quick, shrewd glances, that seemed to take in everything about him from cap to shoes.
“Guess you know something about boats,” he remarked.
“Well, I own a sloop up in Samoset Bay, in Maine—that is, another fellow and I own it together,” replied Harvey, with a touch of pride.
“I knew you were a sailor, the minute I saw you heave that line,” exclaimed the other. And Harvey felt just a bit flattered. Perhaps Jenkins wasn’t such a bad sort, despite his odd attire.
“Do you see that schooner?” inquired young Mr. Jenkins, suddenly, pointing to a craft with a distinctive schooner rig, the outermost of the vessels that comprised the fleet.
Harvey nodded.