"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
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.