There
might be vinegar-pots to be found in her larder, but
they were kept behind closed doors and sampled
only when she was alone. As she sat looking
out to sea, Max's brain still at work on the problem
of her unusual mood, a schooner shifted her
mainsail in the light breeze and set her course for
the inlet.
"That's the regular weekly packet," Max ventured.
"She's making for Farguson's ship-yard.
She runs between Amboy and Barnegat--Captain
Ambrose Farguson sails her." At times like these
any topic was good enough to begin on.
"How do you know?" Lucy asked, looking at
the incoming schooner from under her half-closed
lids. The voice came like the thin piping of a
flute preceding the orchestral crash, merely sounded
so as to let everybody know it was present.
"One of my carriages was shipped by her. I
paid Captain Farguson the freight just before I
went away."
"What's her name?"--slight tremolo--only a
note or two.
"The Polly Walters," droned Max, talking at
random, mind neither on the sloop nor her captain.
"Named after his wife?" The flute-like notes
came more crisply.
"Yes, so he told me." Max had now ceased to
give any attention to his answers.
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