"
"It's you're the clever man, Wilks; education has done wonders for you.
Now, I remember that rope is the painter; that's what The Crew called it
on the dingy, and of course it was fastened to the bow."
"But to the stern of the larger vessel."
"Yes, but here there is no larger vessel. If you want one, for argument
sake, you'll have to imagine the post to be it. The coffin is bow on to
the shore."
"Corry, I insist, if I am to trust myself to this craft, that you call
it by some other name."
"Were you ever in anything of the kind before, Wilks?"
"Never."
"Nor I." These simple words had in them a depth of meaning.
A young man came on to the bridge and leaned over the rail, looking at
the fishermen. He was respectably clad in a farmer's holiday suit, was
tall, strongly built, and with good features that bore unmistakable
marks of dissipation. "I'll bet you that's Ben Toner," whispered the
lawyer, who was examining the new-found bow prior to depositing his
boards.
"Goin' fishin'?" asked the new comer, in a not unpleasant voice.
"Yes," replied Coristine; "we're going in this--what do you call it?"
"Dug-out, and mighty poor at that.
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