TORRY JONES STOOD near the rail, forward on the port side, holding a megaphone to his lips. He had a gal on each side of him; they acted as though they didn’t mind it at all. The yacht looked sweet in the setting sun; all ruddy and trim— and very, very big. There was music somewhere aft; it died as the dirty launch wallowed, engine silent, close to the knife-edged prow. Torry called in a stern voice:
“Ahoy there! What smart craft is that?”
I looked at O’Rourke, who was scowling, his big head turned a little toward me. The scar stood out clearly across his right cheek; whenever I saw the scar, I saw Dingo Bandelli slashing with a knife, saw O’Rourke trying to batter it aside with bare fists. He spat into the Hudson water now, looked at the yacht with contempt in his fine eyes.
“Virgin!” I heard him mutter. “Damn woman ship! Lousy, pretty thing!”
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