With that we finishes our cold fried egg salad, or whatever fancy dish it was we had on the platter, and then we pikes off to the pier where he says the yacht's tied up. And say, she was somethin' of a boat. She made that Dixie Girl, that Woodie and me brought the Incubator kids down in, look like a canoe. She was white all over, except for a gold streak around her, and a couple of dinky yellow masts.
I didn't go down stairs. We plants ourselves in some green cushioned easy chairs under the back stoop awnin', and I sends one of the white-wing hired hands after the conductor.
"It's the sailing master you want," says Pinckney.
"Well, bring him along, too," says I.
But there was only the one. He was a solid built, quiet spoken chap, with a full set of red whiskers and a state of Maine accent. He said his name was Bassett, and that he was just packin' his things to go ashore, havin' heard that the boat had been sold.
"The shore'll be there next month," says I. "What'll you take to stay on the job?"
Well, he didn't want no iron worker's wages, bein' content with a captain's salary, so I tells him to take hold right where he left off and tell the rest of the gang they could do the same. So inside of half an hour I has a couple of dozen men on the pay roll.
"Gee!" says I to Pinckney, "I'm glad the yachtin' season's most over when I begin; if it wa'n't I'm thinkin' I'd have to go out nights with a jimmy."
But Pinckney's busy with his silver pencil, writin' down names.
"There!" says he. "I've thought of a dozen nice people that I'm sure of, and perhaps I'll remember a few more in the mean time."