“Well, aincher wet?” said a voice.
The skipper’s daughter was standing beside him, looking down commiseratingly. Of the rest of the family all he could see was the broad blue seats of their trousers as they leaned hopefully over the side in the quest for wealth.
“Yessir! You sure are wet! Gee! I never seen anyone so wet! I seen wet guys, but I never seen anyone so wet as you. Yessir, you’re certainly wet!”
“I am wet,” admitted Sam.
“Yessir, you’re wet! Wet’s the word all right. Good and wet, that’s what you are!”
“It’s the water,” said Sam. His brain was still clouded; he wished he could remember what that appointment was. “That’s what has made me wet.”
“It’s sure made you wet all right,” agreed the girl. She looked at him interestedly. “Wotcha do it for?” she asked.
“Do it for?”
“Yes, wotcha do it for? How come? Wotcha do a Brodie for off’n that ship? I didn’t see it myself, but pa says you come walloping down off’n the deck like a sack of potatoes.”
Sam uttered a sharp cry. He had remembered.
“Where is she?”
“Where’s who?”
“The liner.”
“She’s off down the river, I guess. She was swinging round, the last I seen of her.”
“She’s not gone?”
“Sure she’s gone. Wotcha expect her to do? She’s gotta to get over to the other side, ain’t she? Cert’nly she’s gone.” She looked at him interested. “Do you want to be on board her?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then, for the love of Pete, wotcha doin’ walloping off’n her like a sack of potatoes?”
“I slipped. I was pushed or something.” Sam sprang to his feet and looked wildly about him. “I must get back. Isn’t there any way of getting back?”
“Well, you could catch up with her at quarantine out in the bay. She’ll stop to let the pilot off.”
“Can you take me to quarantine?”
The girl glanced doubtfully at the seat of the nearest pair of trousers.
“Well, we could,” she said. “But pa’s kind of set in his ways, and right now he’s fishing for dollar bills with the boat-hook. He’s apt to get sorta mad if he’s interrupted.”
“I’ll give him fifty dollars if he’ll put me on board.”
“Got it on you?” inquired the nymph coyly. She had her share of sentiment, but she was her father’s daughter and inherited from him the business sense.
“Here it is.” He pulled out his pocket-book. The book was dripping, but the contents were only fairly moist.
“Pa!” said the girl.
The trouser-seat remained where it was—deaf to its child’s cry.
“Pa! Commere! Wantcha!”
The trousers did not even quiver. But this girl was a girl of decision. There was some nautical implement resting in a rack convenient to her hand. It was long, solid, and constructed of one of the harder forms of wood. Deftly extracting this from its place she smote her inoffensive parent on the only visible portion of him. He turned sharply, exhibiting a red, bearded face.
“Pa, this gen’man wants to be took aboard the boat at quarantine. He’ll give you fifty berries.”
The wrath died out of the skipper’s face like the slow turning down of a lamp. The fishing had been poor, and so far he had only managed to secure a single two-dollar bill. In a crisis like the one which had so suddenly arisen you cannot do yourself justice with a boat-hook.
“Fifty berries!”
“Fifty seeds!” the girl assured him, “Are you on?”
“Queen,” said the skipper simply, “you said a mouthful!”
Twenty minutes later Sam was climbing up the side of the liner as it lay towering over the tug like a mountain. His clothes hung about him clammily. He squelched as he walked.
A kindly looking old gentleman who was smoking a cigar by the rail regarded him with open eyes.
“My dear sir, you’re very wet,” he said.
Sam passed him with a cold face and hurried through the door leading to the companion-way.
“Mummie, why is that man wet?” cried the clear voice of a little child.
Sam whizzed by, leaping down the stairs.
“Good Lord, sir! You’re very wet!” said a steward in the doorway of the dining-saloon.