Got a job
aboard that dock--going with her to Buenos Aires--Say, slow-boy, is that
dory of yours anchored, or is it really coming this way?"
"Coomin' that way, sor!" wheezed the waterman from below.
"That's a coincidence," observed the stranger, twirling his pale
mustache. "I had a berth on her, too." He indicated a huge English kit
bag at his feet.
"Then you'd better get a move on if you're going!" snapped the American,
instantly taking charge of the whole affair. "Shoot your grip here!" He
stood ready to receive and deliver it to the boatman who had landed
below.
"Had about decided not to go," frowned the Briton with an odd change of
manner. "It looks--er--so nasty over there--still, if you can endure it
I suppose I--" the final phrase was lost in the swing at his big kit
bag.
The American followed the luggage hurriedly; the tall fellow lowered
himself calmly and with a certain precision into the stern of the dory.
The boatman set out toward the gliding mass of iron.
The blond youth surveyed their distance from the great dock and marked
its deliberate but deceptive speed.
"I doubt whether we catch it after all," he remarked with slight
interest in his voice.
"Then we'll take a train to Gravesend and get aboard boat there,"
planned the American promptly.
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