"If you don't look sharp," he said, "you'll charter the Seaventure." He waved his hand toward a vessel moored nearby. "There she is, schooner-rigged, fifty feet over all, twenty-five horsepower auxiliary, two staterooms—all ready. Come aboard."
Alan accepted his invitation, and the light of the cabin lamp revealed to Alan's scrutiny a roughly modelled, good-humoured face enlivened by twinkling though steady blue eyes.
"Name, Barcus," said the young man, "christened Thomas. Nativity, American. State of life, flat broke. I found myself this spring with this boat on my hands, sunk every cent I had fitting out on an oral charter with a moneyed blighter in New York who was to have met me here a fortnight since. He didn't—and here I am, in pawn to the ship-chandler."
"How much do you owe?"
"Upward of a hundred."
"Say I advance that amount, when can we sail?"
"Pay my bills, and we can be off inside an hour. That is—I may have some trouble scaring up a crew."
"How much of a crew do you need?"
"One other who knows his job will be enough."
"Then that's settled," Alan said. "I know boats. I'll be your crew—and the better satisfied to have nobody else aboard."
