"Aye, aye, sir," answered the old sea dog, pulling at his cap.
"I understand that yacht is for sale," went on the lawyer, for, on consulting a list he had, he saw that she was among those he had put down to examine.
"She might be, if any one had the money," replied the old sailor, stuffing his thumb into the bowl of his pipe, to tamp down the tobacco.
"Well, I have the money," spoke Dick, quickly.
"Then come aboard, if you please, sir," was the more genial reply, and the old man walked forward to where an accommodation ladder was suspended, and lowered it.
The young millionaire observed that the old sailor walked with a limp, and he at once made up his mind that he had a wooden leg. This diagnosis was confirmed when Dick and Mr. Blake stepped on deck a few seconds later.
"Well, here's the Albatross, and she's for sale, more's the pity," went on the old man, respectfully. "Many's the voyage I've sailed in her when Mr. Richardson was alive. But he's dead, and the pretty craft's on the market. I'm stayin' here to look after her, and d'ye know," and his voice sank to a whisper, "I've had half a notion, more'n once, to hist the anchor, make sail, an' start for Davy Jones' locker, me an' her together. For I've been on her for so long that she's like a wife to me."
