K. Jones was cut clean in two on the Banks by a liner in a fog. Never've known him to make a v'yage something didn't happen—either he'd come back with his flag half-mast, showin' one or more o' the crew had gone, or else he'd had a plaguey poor catch, or else something had gone wrong with the schooner an' he'd come limpin' in under jury rig."
"That's strange," said Varge, leaning forward interestedly. "I mean it's strange that luck like that would stick to a man so consistently."
"Well, 'tis an' 'tisn't," submitted the old salt reflectively. "I've an idee a hull lot of it lays to the fact that he thinks slow. Jonah's a powerful slow thinker. By the time he gets 'raound to makin' up his mind, there's a mite less call to make it up 'cause things have kind o' taken their own course without any interference from him—tee-hee."
Varge laughed outright—the old fellow's chuckle was genuine; it seemed to start from the soles of the heavy sea-boots and work its way along upward till it set the ocean of furrows in the bronzed face to rippling and tumbling over one another.
"And how is it he didn't sail this time when the others did?" Varge questioned.
"Pendyceetus," said the old fellow. "Went down to Boston more'n six weeks ago to have it cut out. Bein' Jonah, they had to do it twice, an' it kept him there longer'n it would most folks. I heerd he clalc'lated to get off with the ebb tide this mornin' to pick up what he could get, rather'n lose the hull season."
"And you think he would take me?" queried Varge quietly.
