Had the crew remained as his father had left it—had Donald Rodney been the chief, as he should have been—and, had they confined their trade to the simple, straightforward course which had been pursued in other years, under such circumstances he might not have refused his aid in a time of need; but it was different now.
There was an atmosphere about Frank Tryon which he did not like; something was there that aroused within him dark and painful suspicions. But—for this once—should he leave his father’s old friends in the lurch?
“Tryon,” said he at length, looking up and speaking shortly and crisply, “do you believe Rodney will ever learn to find the channel to the Cove?”
“Never, in the ebb tide. It isn’t in him. He is a good sailor, but he could never be a navigator, nor a safe pilot.”
“Have you any one on board the brig who could learn?”
“Yes I have just the man.”
“Very well. If I will bring the vessel in this time, will you promise not to ask me to do it again?”
The man hesitated. Evidently he did not like to give up his hold on the young man; but a little reflection told him he must do so; so he did it as gracefully as possible.
“All right,” he said. “I will set about teaching my new pilot at once; and you shall not be again asked to do this work, at least, not by me.”
Percy promised that he would run out on the next morning and look for the brig, and if he should find her, he would bring her in and then, with a simple nod, he picked up his basket, which he had set upon a wayside stone while he had been talking, and passed on.