A SCHOONER, A SKIPPER, AND A SKULL
It was a few days later, when a goodly number of the late Uncle Tom's easily negotiable securities had been converted into cash, and the cash deposited in the bank, that Cleggett bought the Jasper B.
He discovered her near the town of Fairport, Long Island, one afternoon.The vessel lay in one of the canals which reach inward from the Great South Bay.She looked as if she might have been there for some time.Evidently, at one period, the Jasper B.had played a part in some catch-coin scheme of summer entertainment; a scheme that had failed.Little trace of it remained except a rotting wooden platform, roofless and built close to the canal, and a gangway arrangement from this platform to the deck of the vessel.
The Jasper B.had seen better days; even a landsman could tell that.But from the blunt bows to the weather-scarred stern, on which the name was faintly discernible, the hulk had an air about it, the air of something that has lived; it was eloquent of a varied and interesting past.
And, to complete the picture, there sat on her deck a gnarled and brown old man.He smoked a short pipe which was partially hidden in a tangle of beard that had once been yellowish red but was now streaked with dirty white; he fished earnestly without apparent result, and from time to time he spat into the water.Cleggett's nimble fancy at once put rings into his ears and dowered him with a history.
Cleggett noticed, as he walked aboard the vessel, that she seemed to be jammed not merely against, but into the bank of the canal.She wasnearer the shore than he had ever seen a vessel of any sort.Some weeds grew in soil that had lodged upon the deck; in a couple of places they sprang as high as the rail.Weeds grew on shore; in fact, it would have taken a better nautical authority than Cleggett to tell offhand just exactly where the land ended and the Jasper B.began.She seemed to be possessed of an odd stability; although the tide was receding the Jasper B.was not perceptibly agitated by the motion of the water.Of anchor, or mooring chains or cables of any sort, there was no sign.
The brown old man--he was brown not only as to the portions of his skin visible through his hair and whiskers, but also as to coat and trousers and worn boots and cap and pipe and flannel shirt--turned around as Cleggett stepped aboard, and stared at the invader with a shaggy-browed intensity that was embarrassing.
It occurred to Cleggett that the old man might own the vessel and make a home of her.
"I beg your pardon if I am intruding," ventured Cleggett, politely, "but do you live here?"The brown old man made an indeterminate motion of his head, without otherwise replying at once.Then he took a cake of dark, hard- looking tobacco from the starboard pocket of his trousers and a clasp knife from the port side.He shaved off a fresh pipeful, rolled it in his palms, knocked the old ash from his pipe, refilled and relighted it, all with the utmost deliberation.Then he cut another small piece of tobacco from the "plug" and popped it into his mouth.Cleggett perceived with surprise that he smoked and chewed tobacco at the same time.As he thus refreshed himself he glanced from time to time at Cleggett as if unfavorably impressed.Finally he closed his knife with a click and suddenly piped out in a high, shrill voice:
"No!Do you?"
"I--er--do I what?" It had taken the old man so long to answer that Cleggett had forgotten his own question, and the shrill fierceness of the voice was disconcerting.
He regarded Cleggett contemptuously, spat on the deck, and then demanded truculently:
"D'ye want to buy any seed potatoes?" "Why--er, no," said Cleggett.
"Humph!" said the brown one, with the air of meaning that it was only to be expected of an idiot like Cleggett that he would NOT want to buy any seed potatoes.But after a further embarrassing silence he relented enough to give Cleggett another chance.
"You want some seed corn!" he announcedrather than asked."No.I--""Tomato plants!" shrilled the brown one, as if daring him to deny it."No."He turned his back on Cleggett, as if he had lost interest, and began to wind up his fishing line on a squeaky reel.
"Who owns this boat?" Cleggett touched him on the elbow."Thinkin' of buyin' her?""Perhaps.Who owns her?" "What would you do with her?""I might fix her up and sail her.Who owns her?" "She'll take a sight o' fixin'.""No doubt.Who did you say owned her?"
The old man, who had finished with the rusty reel, deigned to look at Cleggett again.
"Dunno as I said."
"But who DOES own her?"
"She's stuck fast in the mud and her rudder's gone.""I see you know a lot about ships," said Cleggett, deferentially, giving up the attempt to find out who owned her."I picked you out for an old sailor the minute I saw you." He thought he detected a kindlier gleam in the old man's eye as that person listened to these words.
"The' ain't a stick in her," said the ancient fisherman."She's got no wheel and she's got no nothin'.She used to be used as a kind of abarroom and dancin' platform till the fellow that used her for such went out o' business."He paused, and then added: "What might your name be?" "Cleggett."He appeared to reflect on the name.But he said: "If you was to ask me, I'd say her timbers is sound.""Tell me," said Cleggett, "was she a deep-water ship? Could a ship like her sail around the world, for instance? I can tell that you know all about ships."Something like a grin of gratified vanity began to show on the brown one's features.He leaned back against the rail and looked at Cleggett with the dawn of approval in his eyes.
