quale's boat, sure's I'm a-standin' here!"
"Who," said Ken, "is Joe Pasquale?"
"He is—or woz—a Portugee fisherman—lobsterman, ruther. He got drownded in Febrerry—fell outen his boat, seems so, an' we got him, but we never got the boat. Couldn't figger wher' she had got to. He was down harbor when 't happent. Cur'ous tide-racks 'round here."
"Whose is she, then?" Ken asked. "Any widows or orphans?"
"Nary widder," said the harbor-master, chewing tobacco reflectively. "No kin. Finders keepers. B'longs to you, I reckon. Ain't much good, be she?"
"Hole stove in her," Ken said. "The engine is all there, but I guess it'll need a good bit of tinkering at."
"Ain't wuth it," said the harbor-master. "She's old as Methusaly, anyways. Keep her—she's salvage if ever there wuz. Might be able to git sunthin' fer her enjine—scrap iron."
"Thanks," said Ken; "I'll think it over." And he ran nearly all the way to Applegate Farm.
