“That’s it. She was the finest privately owned ship in the world, in her day. Nobody wants a ship like that these days. It cost millions to build. She’s been lying around useless for years. She. A buccaneer isn’t a she. But a ship always is. You ever hear of a lady buccaneer, Dina?” He turned his head a little to one side.

“The ocean’s full of them.”

“Do you think we can go for a little ride on her tonight, before dinner?” Chris asked. “I’d love it.”

“No you wouldn’t. Wait till you see her. They took her out on a trial trip for capacity, before they started to strip her. She’s a real mess now.”

“I don’t see how they could do it.”

“Oh, it’s simple. Knock down partitions, all that fancy woodwork, the saloon and bedrooms were lined with satin brocade—–”

“I don’t mean that. I mean I don’t see how anyone who cares about ships—I mean a ship that was the most beautiful yacht in the world—–”

“Fish companies aren’t quite that sentimental. Right, she was a queen—foolish, but a queen. It’s quite a shock to see her now. Like Marie Antoinette after they chopped her head off.”

The ship lay at the dock—the once bustling colorful docks over which the glinting airplanes now flew so tauntingly, so derisively, with their roar or screech or piercing whistle. Those docks had known ships from India, from China, from Japan, from exotic islands and tropical seas. Seattle no longer was host to these strange craft, or Skid Row to their yellow-skinned crew wearing queues, or to the lascars whose gold hoop earrings shone against their dusky cheeks.

The Buccaneer lay at the dockside. Neglected and idle for years, scabrous now and dirt-dimmed, deposed and degraded, the bone structure and the lines were still there, the breeding and distinction persisted. She looked vast, even now, among the little fishing boats and the squat tubs in from Victoria or the islands.

The four occupants of the Husack car—Louise Husack, Bayard, Dina, Christine—had a glimpse of the ship from the hilltop. As they drove down to the docks and into the Company pier itself two rubber-booted figures came toward them down the gangway. Czar Kennedy and Dave Husack, grinning, jubilant, waved a greeting and called out to them before the others had descended from the car.

“You’ll have to wear boots,” Dave yelled. His color, always roseate, had the purplish tinge of excitement. In one hand he carried what seemed to be a gold picture frame, and jumbled in his arms were miscellaneous articles of footgear. “Here. We scrounged a bunch of old mukluks and boots and stuff, it’s pretty mucky, places. You girls better pin up your dresses a little.” He pitched the boots into the floor of the car. “You fit ’em onto the girls, Bay, best you can.”

Dina looked with disdain at the clumsy dirty boots. “I wear fours. And I’d rather ruin my pumps than get into those horrors.”