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“Oh, no, sir,” Sandy rushed on, embarrassed. “Nothing of the kind. I don’t even know him, Dad—except by sight. And I’ve heard Mr. Kennedy himself say that Captain West was a very fine skipper.”

“He is that,” Sandy’s father said, relaxing. “I guess I misunderstood you, son.”

“Anyway,” Jerry James put in, “it will all be in the newspapers, won’t it, Mr. Steele?”

“Not exactly, Jerry. You see, these things take weeks, even after you’ve made your initial discovery. Not that I’m not certain of these deposits. Far from it! I’ve never been more so. But there is always a certain amount of time before a report is properly nailed down—firmly enough for the newspapers to print it, that is.”

“But what you’ve discovered today, Dad—that’s enough to make Mr. Kennedy change his mind about selling?”

“It certainly is!”

“Good,” Sandy said. Then, laying down his knife and fork, he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He brushed back his cowlick and looked sorrowfully at the slice of roast beef remaining on his plate.

“Honestly,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve got room for another single ounce.”

“Well, well,” Jerry James said, apologetically, as he reached over and speared the morsel with his fork. “I think that I just might be able to handle it.”

The unbelievably long silhouette of the James Kennedy lay long and dark like a great sea serpent against the looming bulk of the ore dock as Sandy Steele and Jerry James returned to the lake shore. They carried suitcases in which they had hurriedly stuffed the few things they’d be needing for shipboard life. Each had put in soap and comb and toothpaste and toothbrushes and two sets of dungarees for working hours, plus a good pair of slacks and a sport shirt for those days when they hoped to go ashore in Great Lakes ports like Detroit or Cleveland.

They had disposed of Old Faithful easily enough. Sandy’s father had been pleased to take charge of Jerry’s jalopy while they were gone. It was just what he needed for the short trips between his field shack and the ore borings.

As the two friends walked up the James Kennedy’s ramp, their feet were dragging just a trifle. They had had a long and eventful day, and they were tired. When they stepped on deck, Jerry lost his balance and stumbled. Sandy had to shoot out an arm to keep him from falling. Suddenly, out of the dark, a voice growled, “Late, ain’cha?”

Sandy stopped dead, his hand still grasping Jerry’s arm. He heard a low snicker, and then the voice said, “Jumpy, too, ain’cha?”

“Well, no,” Sandy Steele said slowly, his eyes searching the darkness. “Where are you?”

“Over here.”

As their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the two youths made out the figure of a tall man seated on a canvas chair. He leaned back against the bulkhead and stared at them from unfriendly eyes.

“I guess you two are Ma Kennedy’s little chicks,” he sneered. “That right?”

Sandy Steele felt a quick rush of anger. But he controlled himself and said, “We’re the men Mr. Kennedy signed on, if that’s what you mean.” “Men!” The tall man slapped his feet on the deck and cackled. “‘Men,’ he says! Ain’t that a hot one?” He glared at them. “Which one of you’s named Steele?”

“I am,” Sandy said.

“Go down below and report to the skipper. He’s waiting for you. First deck down, first cabin to starboard.”

“To starboard?” Sandy repeated, and then, remembering that he was aboard ship, he blushed in the dark. The tall man’s cackle of derision didn’t help his self-control any. But Sandy resolved to ignore the man. With a reassuring squeeze of Jerry’s arm, he left his friend and clambered below.

Going down the ladder, Sandy Steele hoped the unfriendly tall man would not make Jerry a target for his ridicule. Jerry James was good-natured enough, but he did have a hair-trigger temper.

When Sandy reached Captain West’s cabin, he stopped and knocked.

“Come in,” a gruff voice called, and Sandy pulled the heavy bulkhead open and stepped inside a small, dimly lighted room. Captain West was seated at a desk. He had his back to the door, but he swung around when Sandy entered. Sandy noticed that he still hadn’t shaved. Apparently he had been writing a letter, for he laid down a fountain pen with the air of a man who has been interrupted.

“Who are you?” Captain West growled, even though Sandy was sure that he had recognized him.

“Sandy Steele is my name, sir.”

“Oh, you’re one of the two kids old man Kennedy—” Captain West stopped and ran a thick stubby hand across his lips. “How well do you know Kennedy?” he snapped.

Sandy was taken aback. “I don’t understand you, sir.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Steele. You know what I mean. Are you a relative of his, or something? A nephew, maybe?”

“No, sir. I met him today for the first time.”

Captain West showed his disbelief. His thin lips parted and he started to laugh. It wasn’t a friendly laugh. Listening to it made Sandy feel anything but good-humored.

“C’mon, kid.” Captain West stared. “Let’s have the truth. What’s your connection with Old Man Kennedy?”

Sandy Steele was furious inwardly. He hadn’t liked the way the tall man topside had referred to Mr. Kennedy, but to hear Captain West—the valued skipper of the Kennedy Shipping Line—going on in the same disrespectful tone, well, that was going too far.

“I am telling the truth, Captain,” Sandy said coldly. “I only met Mr. Kennedy today, and that was by accident.” Captain West raised his thick, dark eyebrows quizzically, and Sandy, with great reluctance, launched into the tale of the ore bucket.

When he had finished, he found, to his amazement, that Captain West was regarding him with what could only be disgust!

“So that’s the answer,” Captain West muttered. With a sort of displeasure, he swung around and began writing again.

“All right, Steele,” he said over his shoulder. “Mr. Briggs will show you and the other boy to your quarters. And you can report to Cookie in the morning.”

“Cookie!”

Sandy Steele couldn’t believe his ears. Before he could stop himself, he had taken two quick steps around to the side of Captain West’s desk. With swift, reddening anger, Captain West threw down his fountain pen and slapped two hairy paws over the letter he’d been writing.

“Are you insubordinate already?” he shouted. “Who do you think you are, questioning a skipper’s orders like that? D’ya think I’m going to let a pair of punk kids the likes of you work topside where the men are? Not on your life! You’ll report to the galley where you belong, and leave the men’s work to the men. Now, get out of my sight!”

Sandy Steele felt himself going hot and cold by turns. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he stood there, looking down into the little piggish eyes of Captain West. They seemed to gleam wickedly in the reflected light of the desk lamp. Finally, with a low, mumbled “Aye, aye, sir,” Sandy Steele turned slowly around and left.

Abovedeck, he found Mr. Briggs. Apparently, he had not bothered to make game of Jerry, for the two of them stood against the rail gazing out at the moon that had just begun to rise over Lake Superior. In the light of the moonlight shimmering on the water, Mr. Briggs got a look at Sandy’s whitened face.

“Ho, ho,” he