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"Hiram," said the Cap'n, after a moment's deliberation, the last hours of the Aurilla P. Dobson rankling still, "sence you and your gang mutinied on me and made me let a chartered schooner go to smash I ain't had no especial confidence in your advice in crisises. I've seen you hold your head level in crisises on shore away from salt water, but you don't fit in 'board ship.
"She sails about like a clam-shell in a puddle of Porty Reek m'lasses," remarked Cap'n Aaron Sproul, casting contemptuous eye into the swell of the dingy mainsail, and noting the crawl of the foam-wash under the counter of the Aurilla P. Dobson. But he could not infect Hiram Look with his dissatisfaction.
For the next twenty-four hours the affairs of the Aurilla P. Dobson were administered without unnecessary conversations between the principals. On the afternoon of the second day Mr. Bodge, whom no solicitation could coax from his vigil on the capstan, broke his trance. "That's the island," he shouted, flapping both hands to mark his choice. It wasn't an impressive islet.
Cap'n Sproul had the topmast schooner Aurilla P. Dobson handily docked at Commercial Wharf, and received his crew and brother-in-law with cordiality that changed to lowering gloom when Hiram followed ten minutes later towing the placid Imogene, and followed by a wondering concourse of men and boys whom his triumphal parade through the streets from the freight-station had attracted.
He had the appearance of a corsair, with his head wrapped in the huge handkerchief that had replaced the plug hat lost in the stress and storm that had destroyed the Aurilla P. Dobson. The elephant, Imogene, was bulked dimly in the first gray of a soppy dawn.
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