There was a card stuck at the brig's mast-head, with "For Sale" written on it.
Mr. Drake had a good many questions to ask, about Farragut, and sea-fights, and the "star" itself, before he came to the brig.
The old man's sailor dress was as neat as wax, and he did not look at all poor, but he said:
"I live with my son, sir. He's no sailor. He's only first mate of one of these iron pots of steamers they have nowadays. I've my pension too, sir, but I like to build 'em. Keeps me busy, sir. Ships is going out of date, sir. It does me good to put folks in mind of 'em. The price is five dollars, sir."
There were wooden ships of all sorts and sizes lying at their wharves, as far up and down the street as any one could see, but the old sailor seemed to forget all about them in his hatred of steam and steamers.
"Rob," said Mr. Drake, "I'll buy that for you. Take it right home. See if you can make one like it."
"May I swim it?"
"Of course you may, but you mustn't spoil it."
"Boy," said the old man, "put some lead on the bottom of that double-ender of yours. It'll stand up, if you ballast it well. That'll be two. When you make another, that'll be three—"
"Oh, I'll make a dozen!"