Dugan began to swing the keel-bolt as an idle golfer swings a club. “Because I’m supposed to be the businessman, I guess. Selling her would be a matter of business.”

Mitch was looking at the keel-bolt. “Was that drawn from her?” If her keel-bolts were going, it meant galvanic action, perhaps wet wood under her paint. Maybe he wasn’t interested after all.

Dugan snorted. “This? Hell, no.” He dropped the bolt by his desk with a clang. “Don’t ask him that, he’ll hit you with it.” He opened the door. “Andrew!”

Outside, the howl of the saw continued. Dugan left the door open and moved to a rusty hotplate. Above it hung three Navy mugs. He selected the cleanest, poured Lindy coffee, and filled the others for Mitch and himself. The screeching died and the other Dugan entered. He took a clothesbrush from a hook and carefully whisked the sawdust from his coveralls to the office floor. He washed his hands at a scummy basin, and dried them. His brother introduced them and said that Mitch was interested in Lorelei.

“I know,” said Andrew Dugan. He hung up the towel but made no effort to shake hands.

“Could we take a look aboard?” asked Mitch. He felt a trickle of sweat run down his side. He had hardly slept last night, for fear that they would find the boat already sold or, perhaps, not really for sale. With his coming windfall he should feel like a Kennedy or a Rockefeller bargaining in a used car lot. Still, the taller brother, hostile and out of focus, made him uncomfortable. “May we see her?” he asked again. His voice was strained.

The tall man didn’t answer. Instead, he commented: “This isn’t exactly the Boat Show, over here. You must have gone to a lot of trouble to find her, Mr. Gordon.”

If Andrew Dugan wanted to sell, he was the world’s worst salesman. A chill had entered the office with him, and Mitch was becoming annoyed. If the boat was for sale, she was for sale, and if not, then not. His cheeks began to burn. Lindy, watching him, cut in swiftly.

“Mr. Dugan—Andrew? Is ‘Andrew’ OK? I can’t keep calling you Mr. Dugan.”

The tall man looked at her coldly. “Dugan’s fine, Mrs. Gordon.”

Mitch tensed. He put down his coffee cup, ready to leave. Nobody rejected Lindy, boat or not. He felt her hand on his sleeve, restraining him. She said: “We think she’s beautiful. Can we see below?”

Andrew Dugan shook his head. “No decor, iron stove, not even gimballed. Old-time, you wouldn’t be impressed.”

Lindy, pretty, friendly, and often more vulnerable than she seemed, looked as if she were about to cry. She was seldom rebuffed. Mitch slipped his arm around her waist. He faced the older brother, who sat embarrassed, staring at his desk-top.