“Just hold on,” said Nares.  “There’s another point.  I heard some talk about a supercargo.”

“That’s Mr. Dodd, here, my partner,” said Jim.

“I don’t see it,” returned the captain drily.  “One captain’s enough for any ship that ever I was aboard.”

“Now don’t you start disappointing me,” said Pinkerton; “for you’re talking without thought.  I’m not going to give you the run of the books of this firm, am I?  I guess not.  Well, this is not only a cruise; it’s a business operation; and that’s in the hands of my partner.  You sail that ship, you see to breaking up that wreck and keeping the men upon the jump, and you’ll find your hands about full.  Only, no mistake about one thing:  it has to be done to Mr. Dodd’s satisfaction; for it’s Mr. Dodd that’s paying.”

“I’m accustomed to give satisfaction,” said Mr. Nares, with a dark flush.

“And so you will here!” cried Pinkerton.  “I understand you.  You’re prickly to handle, but you’re straight all through.”

“The position’s got to be understood, though,” returned Nares, perhaps a trifle mollified.  “My position, I mean.  I’m not going to ship sailing-master; it’s enough out of my way already, to set a foot on this mosquito schooner.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” retorted Jim, with an indescribable twinkle:  “you just meet me on the ballast, and we’ll make it a barquentine.”

Nares laughed a little; tactless Pinkerton had once more gained a victory in tact.  “Then there’s another point,” resumed the captain, tacitly relinquishing the last.  “How about the owners?”

“O, you leave that to me; I’m one of Longhurst’s crowd, you know,” said Jim, with sudden bristling vanity.  “Any man that’s good enough for me, is good enough for them.”

“Who are they?” asked Nares.

“M’Intyre and Spittal,” said Jim.

“O, well, give me a card of yours,” said the captain:  “you needn’t bother to write; I keep M’Intyre and Spittal in my vest-pocket.”

Boast for boast; it was always thus with Nares and Pinkerton—­the two vainest men of my acquaintance.  And having thus reinstated himself in his own opinion, the captain rose, and, with a couple of his stiff nods, departed.

“Jim,” I cried, as the door closed behind him, “I don’t like that man.”

“You’ve just got to, Loudon,” returned Jim.  “He’s a typical American seaman—­brave as a lion, full of resource, and stands high with his owners.  He’s a man with a record.”

“For brutality at sea,” said I.

“Say what you like,” exclaimed Pinkerton, “it was a good hour we got him in:  I’d trust Mamie’s life to him to-morrow.”

“Well, and talking of Mamie?” says I.

Jim paused with his trousers half on.  “She’s the gallantest little soul God ever made!” he cried.  “Loudon, I’d meant to knock you up last night, and I hope you won’t take it unfriendly that I didn’t.  I went in and looked at you asleep; and I saw you were all broken up, and let you be.  The news would keep, anyway; and even you, Loudon, couldn’t feel it the same way as I did.”