“That’s it,” returned Mr. Nott thoughtfully, plucking at his bushy whiskers with his fingers and thumb as if he were removing dead and sapless incumbrances in their growth, “that’s just what it is—­them’s ez in it themselves don’t pay, and them ez haz left their goods—­the goods don’t pay.  The feller ez stored them iron sugar kettles in the forehold, after trying to get me to make another advance on ’em, sez he believes he’ll have to sacrifice ’em to me after all, and only begs I’d give him a chance of buying back the half of ’em ten years from now, at double what I advanced him.  The chap that left them five hundred cases of hair dye ’tween decks and then skipped out to Sacramento, met me the other day in the street and advised me to use a bottle ez an advertisement, or try it on the starn of the Pontiac for fireproof paint.  That foolishness ez all he’s good for.  And yet thar might be suthin’ in the paint, if a feller had nigger luck.  Ther’s that New York chap ez bought up them damaged boxes of plug terbakker for fifty dollars a thousand, and sold ’em for foundations for that new building in Sansome Street at a thousand clear profit.  It’s all luck, Rosey.”

The girl’s eyes had wandered again to the pages of her book.  Perhaps she was already familiar with the text of her father’s monologue.  But recognizing an additional querulousness in his voice, she laid the book aside and patiently folded her hands in her lap.

“That’s right—­for I’ve suthin’ to tell ye.  The fact is Sleight wants to buy the Pontiac out and out just ez she stands with the two fifty vara lots she stands on.”

“Sleight wants to buy her?  Sleight?” echoed Rosey incredulously.

“You bet!  Sleight—­the big financier, the smartest man in ’Frisco.”

“What does he want to buy her for?” asked Rosey, knitting her pretty brows.

The apparently simple question suddenly puzzled Mr. Nott.  He glanced feebly at his daughter’s face, and frowned in vacant irritation.  “That’s so,” he said, drawing a long breath; “there’s suthin’ in that.”

“What did he say?” continued the young girl, impatiently.

“Not much.  ‘You’ve got the Pontiac, Nott,’ sez he.  ‘You bet!’ sez I.  ‘What’ll you take for her and the lot she stands on?’ sez he, short and sharp.  Some fellers, Rosey,” said Nott, with a cunning smile, “would hev blurted out a big figger and been cotched.  That ain’t my style.  I just looked at him.  ’I’ll wait fur your figgers until next steamer day,’ sez he, and off he goes like a shot.  He’s awfully sharp, Rosey.”

“But if he is sharp, father, and he really wants to buy the ship,” returned Rosey, thoughtfully, “it’s only because he knows it’s valuable property, and not because he likes it as we do.  He can’t take that value away even if we don’t sell it to him, and all the while we have the comfort of the dear old Pontiac, don’t you see?”

This exhaustive commercial’ reasoning was so sympathetic to Mr. Nott’s instincts that he accepted it as conclusive.  He, however, deemed it wise to still preserve his practical attitude.  “But that don’t make it pay by the month, Rosey.  Suthin’ must be done.  I’m thinking I’ll clean out that photographer.”