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CHAPTER VII THE FIRING OF JAKE

THE FIRING OF JAKE

THE street was blazing with the morning light, and, turning a corner, a puff of wind from the bay hit George in the face. It carried with it a scent of tar, oakum and bilge, and it was like the breath of the great god Adventure himself, the god of morning and unknown places and strange happenings.

It felt good to be alive, and the clearing up of a ratty old yacht with Hank Fisher, seemed the joyfullest business on earth. Hank had hit a big nail on the head. Money would have spoiled this show—just as it spoils most shows.

They passed along the wharf till they reached Sullivan’s. Hank dumped his bundle and came to the side and George, following him, saw Jake.

Jake was fishing.

“Hullo,” said Hank.

“Hullo,” said Jake.

“Caught anything?” said Hank.

“Naw—fish ain’t bitin’.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that, for I’ve taken over the fishing rights. Jake, you’re fired, the yacht’s45 mine, I’ve taken her over and you’ve got to get.”

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“Y’ mean to say you’ve bought her?”

“Nope. Mr. Tyrebuck has loaned her to me. It’s all the same, you’ve got to get. Here’s his letter, want to read it?”

He dropped the typewritten letter down and Jake spelled over it. Then he said: “And how about the pay due to me, you goin’ to settle?”

“Nope—McCallum’s will pay you. Better go to them, they’ll be glad to see you for I told them what you said about her.”

“And what did I say about her?”

“Told me her spars were carrots and her planking mush.”

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