“I don't want to know about it.”
“But you don't think he 'll try to—stick it into you anyway?”
“Let him try. He can't do much harm.”
“Well—”
“Take my advice, Pink, and quit thinking about him. I don't like this business any more than you do, but the worse it is the less I want to know about it. When we get back we 'll fire him, and that will end it.”
“Don't you think we'd better tie him up, or somethin'?”
“That wouldn't do any good. You'd better tumble below and get some sleep. There's nothing like it when you're a little worked up.”
Dick had indeed something else to think of than his rascal of a mate. Only four days of sailing, if the wind should hold, lay between the Merry Anne and the Annie for whom she had been named. These days would slip away before he knew it, and then? The uncertainty was hard, but still he dreaded the meeting—that might be harder still.
Off Waukegan on the last day the wind swung around to the south, nearly dead ahead; and as the schooner lost headway and was forced into beating to windward, the dread suddenly gave place to impatience. So variable were his thoughts indeed, as the miles slipped astern and the long green bluff that ends in Grosse Pointe grew nearer and plainer, that his courage oozed away.
Far down the Lake, between the Lake View crib and the horizon, was a speck of a sail. Dick's heart sank—he knew as if he could make out the painted name that it was the Captain. He watched it hungrily as the Merry Anne, headed in close to the waterworks pier, swept easily around, and started on the last outward tack. Then he called to Pink, and had the sheets hauled close; and he laughed softly and nervously as the schooner responded with a list to port and a merry little fling of spray. He could at least come in with a rush, with all his colors flying.