walking to the owner.
Marston rolled the plugging cigar to a corner of his mouth and inquired, “Now, young man, tell me what you mean by saluting a Bee line steamer with my whistle?”
“I did not salute the Conomo, sir.”
“You gave her three whistles.”
“Yes, but—”
“You're on a gentleman's yacht now, young man, and not on a fishing-steamer. Yachting etiquette doesn't allow a steam-whistle to be sounded in salute. Mr. Beveridge has just looked it up for me, and I know, and you need not assume any of your important knowledge.” Marston seemed to be displaying much more irritation than a small matter warranted. But what he added afforded more light on the subject. “The manager of the Bee line was on board that steamer. You heard him hoot that siren at me!”
“I heard him give me cross-signals in defiance of the rules of the road, sir.”
“Didn't you know that he whistled at me as an insult—as a sneer?”
“I heard only ordinary signals, sir.”
“Everything is ordinary to a sailor's observation! You allowed him to crowd you off your course. You made a spectacle of my yacht, splashing it around like a frightened duck.”
“I was avoiding collision, sir.”
“You should have made your bigness with my yacht! You sneaked and dodged like a fishing-boat skipper. Was it on a fishing-boat you were trained to those tricks?”
“I have commanded a fishing-steamer, sir.”
“On top of it all you gave him three whistles—regular fishing-boat manners, eh?”
Captain Mayo straightened and his face and eyes expressed the spirit of a Yankee skipper who knew that he was right.
“I say,” insisted Marston, “that you saluted him.”
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