"What's the goodwill worth, Fred?"

"About fivepence net," said the gloomy Fred. "I can sell all these,

but it is the Fairy Mary and the Fairy Tilda that's breaking my

heart. And yet, Joe, there ain't two ships of their tonnage to be

bought on the market. If you wanted two ships of the same size and

weight, you couldn't buy 'em for a million--no, you couldn't. I guess

they must be bad ships, Joe."

Joe had already guessed that.

"I offered 'em to Saddler, of the White Anchor," Fred went on, "and he

said that if he ever started collecting curios he'd remember me. Then

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I tried to sell 'em to the Coastal Cargo Line--the very ships for the

Newcastle and Thames river trade--and he said he couldn't think of it

now that the submarine season was over. Then I offered 'em to young

Topping, who thinks of running a line to the West Coast, but he said

that he didn't believe in Fairies or Santa Claus or any of that stuff."

There was silence.

"Who named 'em Fairy Mary and Fairy Tilda?" asked Joe curiously.

"Don't let's speak ill of the dead," begged Fred; "the man who had 'em

built is no longer with us, Joe. They say that joy doesn't kill, but

that's a lie, Joe. He died two days after we took 'em over, and left

all his money--all our money--to a nephew."

"I didn't know that," said Joe, sitting up.

"I didn't know it myself till the other day, when I took the deed of

sale down to Cole to see if there wasn't a flaw in it somewhere. I've

wired him."

"Who--Cole?"

"No, the young nephew. If we could only----"

He did not complete his sentence, but there was a common emotion and

understanding in the two pairs of eyes that met.

"Who is he--anybody?" asked Joe vaguely.

Fred broke off the ash of his cigar and nodded.

"Anybody worth half a million is somebody, Joe," he said seriously.

"This young fellow was in the Army. He's out of it now, running a

business in the City--'Schemes, Ltd.,' he calls it. Lots of people

know him--shipping people on the Coast. He's got a horrible nickname."

"What's that, Fred?"

"Bones," said Fred, in tones sufficiently sepulchral to be appropriate,

"and, Joe, he's one of those bones I want to pick."

There was another office in that great and sorrowful City. It was

perhaps less of an office than a boudoir, for it had been furnished on

the higher plan by a celebrated firm of furnishers and decorators,

whose advertisements in the more exclusive publications consisted of a

set of royal arms, a photograph of a Queen Anne chair, and the bold

surname of the firm. It was furnished with such exquisite taste that

you could neither blame nor praise the disposition of a couch or the

set of a purple curtain.




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