Baldwin held up one wide-spread hand palm out.  “That’s enough, Buddy.  You’ve said enough.  I don’t know what the poor old Whist will do once she finds herself away from the lee of the breakwater t’night, Bud, but we’ll go, and if they’re there and we stay afloat, we’ll get ’em.  And Bo, I could play this hand all night, but two round blue moons to see what you got.  Hah?  King full, eh?  The nerve of you!  What did y’ think I was only taking one card f’r?  There, feast your eyes on that fat black collection, will yuh?  In a row?  Sure in a row.  Look at ’em—­a three-toed black regiment of ’em.  And these other little round red, white, and blue boys, cash ’em in, will yuh, Bo?  And put the money in an envelope for me?”

“And for me too.”  Harty had drawn out a roll of bills and laid them on the table.  “I don’t know how much is there—­count it, you.  And if I don’t come ’round again, here’s an address—­South Boston, yes—­where you can send it.  A little nephew of mine, a fine fat little devil who thinks his uncle’s the greatest man in the world.  The poor kid, of course, don’t know any different.  So long, fellows.  All ready, Baldy?”

“All ready, Bud—­head away.”

Through the streets, past the Navy Yard gate and through the Navy Yard the two friends tramped silently.

“Won’t you need more than the three of us to handle that tug?” asked Harty.

“Three’s plenty, Bud.  You and me an’ old Pete, we can make out.  What’s the use of risking any more, though if we did need ’em, we’d get ’em.  We’d only have to beat up the water-front, and volunteers!  They’d come a-running, Bud, from every joint and dance-hall, enough to run a battleship—­in no time, yes, sir.  Why, Bud, even that squash-head of a piano-player would ‘a’ come if we’d ast him.”

“H-m-m—­you surely think well of people, Baldy.”

“No more strain than to think bad of ’em.  But what’d be the use?  Us two an’ old Pete, who’ll be sleepin’ aboard, c’n run her, Bud.”

And they had put out in the Whist, and now down in the combined engine and fire-room of her were Harty and old Pete toiling to keep steam up.  A notorious little craft, the Whist, one of those legacies which sometimes fall to the Service; the department always going to fix her up, and always putting it off until the next appropriation.  Her old boilers leaked, and in a sea-way her old seams gaped, and what between keeping steam up and her bilge pumped out, Harty and Pete could hardly find time to brace their feet whenever she attempted, as she did about every fifteen seconds, to heave them across the floor.

To the wheel of the Whist was Baldwin, and as with every dive of the plunging Whist the spray scattered high above her bows, so through the open windows of the pilot-house came barrels of it, and not a spoonful that didn’t go to his drenching.

“But it’s a good thing to get good and wet at first,” reflected Baldwin, “then you won’t be worryin’ any more about it.”  It was not only wet, but cold.  But naturally, too, when you’re a-wrecking to sea of a cold winter’s night you just got to expect a few little discomforts.