“TheDo-me might go on the market if Mr. Ericson buys land here, and builds himself a house and buys himself a launch for Bill Spinks to run for him year in and year out.”
Brown eyes surveyed Joe quizzingly, brown eyes set in an alert brown face. Jack Wilton was young and strong and lithe, of average height, and as clean as the sea which was as much part of his existence as the air. Joe became a little truculent.
“Well, if it turns out as you say Marion Spinks says so, Bill Spinks won’t have no more use for theDo-me.”
“Perhaps not, Joe. Supposing Marion’s right? Supposing Ericson does buy that land and builds a home on it, supposing he does buy himself a good launch and hires Bill permanently to run it for him: supposing Ma Spinks and Marion moves out of their house and goes to live with Ericson, Ma to cook and Marion to housemaid; and supposing that Bill does think he won’t have use for theDo-me and decides to sell her, what makes you think you’ll do better as her owner than you’re doing as my mate?”
The clear brown eyes had become stern and the old grey eyes shifted their gaze back again to the jetty.
“Might,” Joe answered.
“You wouldn’t,” Wilton assured him earnestly. “Running a fishing launch is the same as running a farm or a business. You’ve got to put back into her a lot of what you take out of her. You’re too easy-going, Joe. You’d take all out of theDo-me and put nothing into her as repairs and overhaul. You wouldn’t escape worrying, Joe. As my mate you don’t have to do any worrying at all, and you don’t have to put back into theMarlin anything of the quarter-share you take out of her. Besides, Joe, we’ve been mates for a long time.”