As the old sailor hurried along the street toward the ship owner’s office he became calmer, and, being a person who had all his life been taking greater or less chances in his business of seagoing, he began to look at the situation more composedly.
The Silver Swan was without doubt in far greater danger of destruction now than she had been while hard and fast on the reef, but no amount of worrying would better the matter, and therefore one might accept the fact coolly. Then, besides, she had floated unmolested for over six weeks already, and there was a big chance for her doing so for six weeks or more to come.
“Blast these navy vessels any way, I say!” the old man muttered, stumping along now at a moderate gait. “They probably won’t be able to find her. And if nothing collides with her, I reckon she’ll keep afloat for one while, for I can swear myself that the old brig warn’t injured none below the water line—she went on that reef jest as easy!
“She’s got the same chance o’ staying above board—the Silver Swan has—as any other craft that’s become a derelict. Look at the schooner W. L. White, abandoned by her crew during the great storm of ’88. She floated about the North Atlantic for the better part of a year, before she went ashore at last on the Hebrides.
“An’ then there was the Weyer G. Sargent, mahogany laden, floated fifty-five hundred mile, or more, ’cording to the pilot chart, a-swingin’ ’round the Atlantic from New Foundland to the Azores for two years. An’ there may be many another good ship that’s got a bigger record ’n that at this very day, down in the Sargasso sea. Oh, it might be worse.”
Nevertheless, despite this cheerful view, the old sailor’s forehead was knotted into a scowl as he opened the door of the ship owner’s dingy office and entered. The red haired clerk was alone at the desk and the door of the private office was shut.
“Well, you jail bird, are you here yet?” demanded the visitor impolitely, eying the clerk with exceeding disfavor.
“Oh, is that you, Mr. Featherbee——”
“Wetherbee, you scoundrel!” roared the sailor, in a voice like a bull.
“Oh, yes! I should say Wetherbee—er—that’s what I meant,” the clerk hastened to say.