“‘Well, Ben,’ says I, after we had shook hands, ‘well, Ben,’ I says, ’my shanty ain’t exactly the United States Hotel for gilt paint and bill of fare, but I have got eight or ten gallons of home-made cherry rum and some terbacker and an extry pipe.  You fall into my wake.’

“‘I’d like to, Obed,’ he says; ’I’d like to almighty well, but I’ve got to go up to the store, if there is such a thing in this metropolus, and buy some stuff that I forgot to get in Newport.  You see, we got orders to sail in a tearing hurry, and—­’

“‘Send one of them fo’mast hands to the store,’ says I.  ’You got to come with me.’

“He hemmed and hawed a while, but he was dry, and I shook the cherry-rum jug at him, figuratively speaking, so finally he give in.

“‘You buy so and so,’ says he to his men, passing ’em a ten-dollar bill.  ’And mind, you don’t know nothing.  If anybody asks, remember that yacht’s the Mermaid—­M-U-R-M-A-D-E,’ he says, ’and she belongs to Mr. Jones, of Mobile, Georgia.’

“So the men went away, and me and Ben headed for my shanty, where we moored abreast of each other at the table, with a jug between us for a buoy, so’s to speak.  We talked old times and spun yarns, and the tide went out in the jug consider’ble sight faster than ’twas ebbing on the flats.  After a spell I asked him about the man that owned the yacht.

“‘Who?  Oh—­er—­Brown?’ he says.  ‘Why, he’s—­’

“‘Brown?’ says I.  ’Thought you said ‘twas Jones?’

“Well, that kind of upset him, and he took some cherry-rum to grease his memory.  Then I asked more questions and he tried to answer ’em, and got worse tangled than ever.  Finally I had to laugh.

“‘Look here, Ben,’ says I.  ’You can’t fetch port on that tack.  The truth’s ten mile astern of you.  Who does own that yacht, anyway?’

“He looked at me mighty solemn—­cherry-rum solemn.  ‘Obed,’ he says, ’you’re a good feller.  Don’t you give me away, now, or I’ll lose my berth.  The man that owns that yacht’s named Davidson, and he’s got a summer place right in this town.’

“‘Davidson!’ says I.  ‘Davidson?  Not young Allie Davidson?’

“‘That’s him,’ says he.  ’And he’s the blankety blankest meanest low-down cub on earth.  There!  I feel some better.  Give me another drink to take the taste of him out of my mouth.’

“‘But young Davidson’s gone to Boston,’ I says.  ’Went this morning.’

“‘That be hanged!’ says Ben.  ’All I know is that I got a despatch from him at Newport on Monday afternoon, telling me to have the yacht abreast this town at twelve o’clock to-night, ’cause he was coming off to her then in his launch with a friend.  Friend!’ And he laughed and winked his starboard eye.

“I didn’t say much, being too busy thinking, but Ben went on telling about other cruises with ‘friends.’  Oh, a steam-yacht can be a first-class imitation of hell if the right imp owns her.  Henry got speaking of one time down along the Maine coast.