"Cole says that there is no contract. Billing offered to buy the ships, and meant to buy them, undoubtedly; but Cole says that if you took Billing into court, the judge would chuck his pen in your eye." "Would he now?" said Joe, one of whose faults was that he took things literally. "But perhaps if you took Billing out to dinner, Fred----" "He's a vegetarian, Joe"--he reached in his turn for a cigar, snipped the end and lit it--"and he's deaf. No, we've got to find a sucker, Joe. I can sell the _Fairy May_ and the _Fairy Belle_: they're little boats, and are worth money in the open market. I can sell the wharfage and offices and the goodwill----" "What's the goodwill worth, Fred?" "About fivepence net," said the gloomy Fred. "I can sell all these, but it is the _Fairy Mary_ and the _Fairy Tilda_ that's breaking my heart. And yet, Joe, there ain't two ships of their tonnage to be bought on the market. If you wanted two ships of the same size and weight, you couldn't buy 'em for a million--no, you couldn't. I guess they must be bad ships, Joe." Joe had already guessed that. "I offered 'em to Saddler, of the White Anchor," Fred went on, "and he said that if he ever started collecting curios he'd remember me. Then I tried to sell 'em to the Coastal Cargo Line--the very ships for the Newcastle and Thames river trade--and he said he couldn't think of it now that the submarine season was over. Then I offered 'em to young Topping, who thinks of running a line to the West Coast, but he said that he didn't believe in Fairies or Santa Claus or any of that stuff." There was silence. "Who named 'em _Fairy Mary_ and _Fairy Tilda_?" asked Joe curiously. "Don't let's speak ill of the dead," begged Fred; "the man who had 'em built is no longer with us, Joe. They say that joy doesn't kill, but that's a lie, Joe. He died two days after we took 'em over, and left all his money--all our money--to a nephew." "I didn't know that," said Joe, sitting up. "I didn't know it myself till the other day, when I took the deed of sale down to Cole to see if there wasn't a flaw in it somewhere. I've wired him." "Who--Cole?" "No, the young nephew. If we could only----" He did not complete his sentence, but there was a common emotion and understanding in the two pairs of eyes that met. "Who is he--anybody?" asked Joe vaguely. Fred broke off the ash of his cigar and nodded. "Anybody worth half a million is somebody, Joe," he said seriously. "This young fellow was in the Army. He's out of it now, running a business in the City--'Schemes, Ltd.,' he calls it. Lots of people know him--shipping people on the Coast. He's got a horrible nickname." "What's that, Fred?" "Bones," said Fred, in tones sufficiently sepulchral to be appropriate, "and, Joe, he's one of those bones I want to pick."