"I can't accept it, Mr. Anderson; I can't indeed," replied the
owner, picking up the parchment. "And I'll tell you why. My brother
and I have been thinking matters over, and we've really been obliged
to confess, for conscience' sake, that the Chrysolite is getting
old."
"Devilish old!" muttered the captain, forgetting himself for a
moment.
"Well, now I think of it again, I believe my brother did say she
was 'devilish old'--a strange coincidence. Still she is a fine
model of a boat. What d' ye think yourself?"
"She has rare lines," said the other, with a slight approach to
grave enthusiasm.
"The very remark I made myself only yesterday. Yes, we agreed she
was a pretty boat; and I admit, from sheer sentiment, I cannot bear
to think of her being chopped up for firewood. So inharmonious,
don't you think?"
The old sailor looked sullen and said nothing.
Mr. Ruin leaned his elbows well on to the table in a confidential
manner, and reduced his voice to husky whispering.
"My brother told me he should not mind seeing her end her days as
a picturesque wreck, but to sell her for match-wood was barbarous.
I was really of the same opinion.
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