water-front, with only some mud flats between it and the long jetties going toward the open Gulf.
About a block away from the yard gate there was a small cluster of buildings among the otherwise empty lots, a beer joint or two and a cafe and an abandoned store building with a For Rent sign on it. I parked the truck in front of the cafe, locked it, and went inside. It was still early, and a girl was making coffee in a big urn. I drank two cups and ate an order of hot cakes. The morning paper was on the counter. I looked through it, but there was nothing about his body’s being found. It was too soon yet. There would be.
The yard workmen began to drift in. I walked down to the gate and went inside. The Ballerina was hauled out on the marine railway. I stood for a moment, just looking at her. She was long-ended and slimly arrogant, cut away at the forefoot and tapering in sharply under the stern, and she drew nearly six feet when she was afloat, with some 5000 pounds of iron in her keel. I’d never been aboard her, but I’d seen her several times over at the yacht basin, and I was familiar with the design. I’d sailed one of her sisters in a race shortly after the war.
Opening my pocketknife, I walked under her, white linen suit and all, and started probing. It must have been six months or more since she’d been hauled, because she was foul with grass and barnacles, but in half an hour I knew that under all the marine growth she was as sound as the day she was built. I kept on, hardly even aware when calking hammers began sounding on the ways.
Finding a ladder, I went aboard and went on with the inspection. She’d been well kept up. I remembered Carling had bought new sails for her a few months ago when she was over at the yacht basin, so I didn’t have to look at them. The cabin seemed to be all right, with no indication of leaks in the decking overhead. The layout was perfect for the three of us who were going to be aboard. There were two bunks forward, then a head on the port side and a locker on the starboard that formed almost a partition, leaving only a narrow passage. That could be curtained to make two cabins of it. Aft of the head and the locker there were two settees, one on each side, and either of these could be made up as a bunk. A folding chart table came down over one of them, and aft of them were the icebox and locker space of the galley and the primus stove hanging in gimbals.
I inspected the bilges, and took a look at the Gray marine engine, though I couldn’t tell much about the latter until she was back in the water and I could try it out. Just as I was coming down the ladder the man from the yacht broker’s showed up. The yard foreman was with him. I introduced myself.
“Well, what do you think of her?” he asked.
“She’s in good shape,” I said. “I’ll give you ten thousand.”
“He’s still asking eleven.”
“Who owns her?” I asked.
“Man named Carling. Automobile dealer.”
“Well, how about getting him on the phone? Tell him I’ll write you a check for ten in the next five minutes.”
He went off toward the office. I gave the yard foreman a cigarette. He was a big, heavy-bodied Finn or Norwegian. He nodded toward the sloop.
“That one’s built,” he said.
“She’s that,” I said. “But her bottom’s in awful shape. How soon can you get a crew of men on her? I’ll give you the paint specification, and the rest of the work list—”
He grinned. “Hadn’t you better wait till you’ve bought her?”
“I’ve already bought her,” I said. “We’re just arguing about how much I have to pay.”
The yacht broker’s man came back. “Says he’ll take ten five. That’s the bottom.”
I pulled out the checkbook, and nodded to the foreman. “Tell your men to start scraping.”
We went up to the office and the foreman introduced me to the superintendent. We started writing out the work list, and all the time that anniversary card was burning a hole in
About a block away from the yard gate there was a small cluster of buildings among the otherwise empty lots, a beer joint or two and a cafe and an abandoned store building with a For Rent sign on it. I parked the truck in front of the cafe, locked it, and went inside. It was still early, and a girl was making coffee in a big urn. I drank two cups and ate an order of hot cakes. The morning paper was on the counter. I looked through it, but there was nothing about his body’s being found. It was too soon yet. There would be.
The yard workmen began to drift in. I walked down to the gate and went inside. The Ballerina was hauled out on the marine railway. I stood for a moment, just looking at her. She was long-ended and slimly arrogant, cut away at the forefoot and tapering in sharply under the stern, and she drew nearly six feet when she was afloat, with some 5000 pounds of iron in her keel. I’d never been aboard her, but I’d seen her several times over at the yacht basin, and I was familiar with the design. I’d sailed one of her sisters in a race shortly after the war.
Opening my pocketknife, I walked under her, white linen suit and all, and started probing. It must have been six months or more since she’d been hauled, because she was foul with grass and barnacles, but in half an hour I knew that under all the marine growth she was as sound as the day she was built. I kept on, hardly even aware when calking hammers began sounding on the ways.
Finding a ladder, I went aboard and went on with the inspection. She’d been well kept up. I remembered Carling had bought new sails for her a few months ago when she was over at the yacht basin, so I didn’t have to look at them. The cabin seemed to be all right, with no indication of leaks in the decking overhead. The layout was perfect for the three of us who were going to be aboard. There were two bunks forward, then a head on the port side and a locker on the starboard that formed almost a partition, leaving only a narrow passage. That could be curtained to make two cabins of it. Aft of the head and the locker there were two settees, one on each side, and either of these could be made up as a bunk. A folding chart table came down over one of them, and aft of them were the icebox and locker space of the galley and the primus stove hanging in gimbals.
I inspected the bilges, and took a look at the Gray marine engine, though I couldn’t tell much about the latter until she was back in the water and I could try it out. Just as I was coming down the ladder the man from the yacht broker’s showed up. The yard foreman was with him. I introduced myself.
“Well, what do you think of her?” he asked.
“She’s in good shape,” I said. “I’ll give you ten thousand.”
“He’s still asking eleven.”
“Who owns her?” I asked.
“Man named Carling. Automobile dealer.”
“Well, how about getting him on the phone? Tell him I’ll write you a check for ten in the next five minutes.”
He went off toward the office. I gave the yard foreman a cigarette. He was a big, heavy-bodied Finn or Norwegian. He nodded toward the sloop.
“That one’s built,” he said.
“She’s that,” I said. “But her bottom’s in awful shape. How soon can you get a crew of men on her? I’ll give you the paint specification, and the rest of the work list—”
He grinned. “Hadn’t you better wait till you’ve bought her?”
“I’ve already bought her,” I said. “We’re just arguing about how much I have to pay.”
The yacht broker’s man came back. “Says he’ll take ten five. That’s the bottom.”
I pulled out the checkbook, and nodded to the foreman. “Tell your men to start scraping.”
We went up to the office and the foreman introduced me to the superintendent. We started writing out the work list, and all the time that anniversary card was burning a hole in
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