Apparently Dugan was not going to guide them. Mitch wandered alone to the fo’c’s’le. The two bunks forward were high, with barely room to crawl under the deck beams. There would be no headroom there, even for Lindy, except adjacent to the thick trunk of the mainmast. But aft of the forward cabin, the head-compartment was roomy as it seldom was in modern boats. By the stainless steel sink squatted a hand-pump with a varnished mahogany handle; no pressure system here to go wrong at sea. The toilet was manual, too, and there was not an electric light in sight.

Everywhere, the joiner-work was superb. Each mahogany plug, hiding a screw or a bolt-head, matched the grain of the wood in which it was set. Where roundhead screws showed, their slots were neatly aligned.

There were changes they would have to make, if they ever decided to live aboard. There were modifications they would need to cruise hot climates: she was obviously designed for the north. But her brutal scantlings would be as good insulation against heat as against cold.

She had a feel of granite stability. The varnished trim was simply icing on the cake.

He moved aft, past Dugan, opened the engine compartment under the companionway steps. Inside was a big Greymarine gasoline engine, shining in red paint. It looked new but was easily thirty years old. Under it sat a stainless steel drip-pan; the bilges were impeccably white.

“So,” Dugan said tonelessly, as Mitch backed out of the engine compartment and into the main cabin, “how much do I want?”

Mitch seated himself across the table from Dugan. The transaction seemed suddenly less like the sale of a boat than a child-custody case. If he dwelt on money, the man might stalk away.

“She’s priceless,” said Mitch. “But let’s not discuss price yet.”

“That’s unusual,” Dugan said. He seemed interested for the first time. His face even relaxed, minutely. “What would you like to discuss?”

“She must have taken years to build—”

“Five years, part-time. Eight, if you count aging her lumber.”

“I don’t understand why you want to sell her.”

He had goofed. Dugan stiffened and rose.

“Actually, I don’t. Not right now. Just something I was kicking around.” He put a foot on the ladder, climbed a step, and looked down at Mitch. “She’s sound. You might as well know that.”

“Look,” flared Mitch. “Sit down!” His own voice surprised him. It surprised Dugan too, and though the carpenter did not descend, he at least stayed where he was.

Mitch went on, swiftly: “All I meant was, I wouldn’t sell her. I can practically smell she’s sound.”

“I noticed you trying.”

To sniff this boat had been insolent. Desperately, Mitch plunged ahead: “She’s obviously sound. I’ll pay you whatever you think she’s worth.” The lawyer overcame the man of sudden wealth: “Within reason.”