[grisbi-devel] *** PROBABLY SPAM *** EN, JAMES LANE. **A Cathedral Singer. Cen. May, '1

[Delmonaco Morelen]

 a friend of yourn?" he
inquired. "In a way," I said. "Hm-m--well--" He turned on
his thwart to squint ahead. "There she is,"

he announced, with something of relief, I thought. It was hard at that
time
of night to make anything but a black blotch out of the _Abbie Rose_.
Of course I could see that
she was pot-bellied, like the rest of the coastwise sisterhood. And
that McCord had not stowed his topsails. I could make
them out, pursed at the mastheads and hanging down as far as the
cross-trees, like huge, over-ripe pears. Then I recollected that he
had found them so--probably had not touched them since; a queer way to
leave tops, it seemed to me. I could

see also the glowing
tip of a cigar floating restlessly along the farther rail. I called:
"McCord! Oh, McCord!" The spark came swimming across the deck. "Hello!
Hello there--ah--" There was a note

of querulous
uneasiness there that somehow jarred with my remembrance of this man.
"Ridgeway," I explained. He echoed the name

uncertainly, still with that suggestion of peevishness, hanging over
the rail and peering down at
us. "Oh! By gracious!" he exclaimed, abruptly. "I'm glad to see you,
Ridgeway. I had a boatman coming out before this, but I guess--well, I
guess he'll be along. By gracious! I'm glad--" "I'll not keep you," I
told the gnome, putting the money in his palm and reaching for the
rail.
McCord lent me a hand on my wrist. Then when I stood squarely on the
deck beside

him he appeared to forget my presence, leaned forward heavily on the
rail, and squinted
after my waning boatman. "Ahoy--boat!" he called out, sharply,
shielding his
lips wit
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