ALL OF A KIND
Skippy’s little boat chugged out of the bay and around toward the Hook.
It was late afternoon and the haze had deepened into an ominous
sultriness. White caps danced atop the waves and off on the horizon
black clouds and black sea met in dismal union. A flock of gulls swarmed
about, flapping their huge wings between sky and sea with monotonous
precision.
A miscellaneous collection of craft was anchored just outside the bay;
sailboats, fishing smacks, dories and yachts of every size, and not the
least of these was the shining hull of the lovely _Apollyon_. Skippy
caught sight of her immediately and slowed his own little boat that he
might have a better view of her in the light of day.
Her superstructure was painted a most delicate shade of green and Skippy
understood then why he had imagined her to be of that ghostly whiteness
below her anchor lights which shone like stars against that dark,
memorable night. Too, the large gilt letters spelling out her queer name
seemed not so ornate now as when he had first seen them.
His first reaction to the lovely yacht had been one of envy and
admiration; it was so now and he tried hard not to think of the unhappy
sequel that his first visit to the _Apollyon_ had brought. Yet somehow
he could not shake off the fear-inspiring memory of what the name really
meant and he wondered if anything but evil could tread those spotless
decks.
He chuckled a little and turned his motor boat toward the yacht. There
were signs of a near-departure aboard and he caught sight of the second
mate resplendent in his spotless uniform and cap. Leaning over the
forward rail, he recognized Skippy at once, and waved his hand.
“If it ain’t the kid!” he called cheerfully. “Young Dare, hey? Well,
you’ve come a ways.”
“Sure,” Skippy smiled. “I come down to see Mr. Skinner. It’s awful
particular what I gotta see him about.”
“You look’s if it might be a case of life or death at that,” the second
mate mused.
“It is a case of life, Mister—my Pop’s whole life,” said Skippy
anxiously. “That’s why I wanta see Mr. Skinner.”
The second mate was all contrition. “Kid, I clean forgot about your Pop,
’deed I did. C’mon aboard. Sure Mr. Skinner’ll be seein’ you. ’Course I
ain’t promisin’ you’ll find him easy talkin’ to ’cause he ain’t. He’s
right set in his notions ’bout you Basin and river folks; he thinks
you’re all rascals.”
“But his boss, ol’ Flint——” Skippy began protesting.
“He knowed like you’n me and plenty others that the old boss was a tough
egg—and between you’n me Skinner ain’t no angel hisself—but that don’t
change his mind none.”
Skippy realized this full well a little later when Marty Skinner refused
to hear him, ordered him off the boat, and shouted that his father was a
rogue and so was he.
Skippy rushed blindly out of the cabin. The door slammed behind him, the
same door that had slammed behind his father on that tragic night. He
had accomplished just nothing at all in that cabin of past horrors,
nothing except to hear from a gentleman’s lips what his kind really
thought of river people.
And he, Skippy Dare, was one of the river people—himself, the son of a
rogue!