"He hemmed and hawed a while, but he was dry, and I shook the cherry-rum
jug at him, figuratively speaking, so finally he give in.

"'You buy so and so,' says he to his men, passing 'em a ten-dollar
bill. 'And mind, you don't know nothing. If anybody asks, remember that
yacht's the Mermaid--M-U-R-M-A-D-E,' he says, 'and she belongs to Mr.
Jones, of Mobile, Georgia.'

"So the men went away, and me and Ben headed for my shanty, where we
moored abreast of each other at the table, with a jug between us for a
buoy, so's to speak. We talked old times and spun yarns, and the tide
went out in the jug consider'ble sight faster than 'twas ebbing on the
flats. After a spell I asked him about the man that owned the yacht.

"'Who? Oh--er--Brown?' he says. 'Why, he's--'

"'Brown?' says I. 'Thought you said 'twas Jones?'

"Well, that kind of upset him, and he took some cherry-rum to grease his
memory. Then I asked more questions and he tried to answer 'em, and got
worse tangled than ever. Finally I had to laugh.

"'Look here, Ben,' says I. 'You can't fetch port on that tack. The
truth's ten mile astern of you. Who does own that yacht, anyway?'

"He looked at me mighty solemn--cherry-rum solemn. 'Obed,' he says,
'you're a good feller. Don't you give me away, now, or I'll lose my
berth. The man that owns that yacht's named Davidson, and he's got a
summer place right in this town.'