Maybe, he offered, in their father’s defense (but knowing he was expressing a hope as well), Dad did not hold a deeper affection for his firstborn but a different kind of affection, of one old shipmate for another, rather than of father toward son.

“Yeah, maybe,” said Eliot, his glance under the cropped bill of his cap moving restlessly to check on traffic, for they were nearing Stonington and all about them were fishing smacks and dories and lobster sloops—lean utilitarian little vessels sailed by lean utilitarian men. “But if any one of us got into pickles, he’d tell us to get lost. Look at this, now. We didn’t even get into a pickle and he’s told us to get lost. Do you reckon if one of us had a business that went broke, he’d find a job for us?”

“I think the old man would stand by us. Anyhow, Dailey said that it was quite a fight, so maybe Lock isn’t his favorite anymore. Hasn’t been since he went bust.”

The yawl yielded, her crew paying out sheets and her booms swinging to leeward as she fell off. She looked to be a good fifty feet on deck, and her black hull was trimmed in gold. Someone at her rail was looking at Double Eagle through binoculars. The man appeared to be waving at them, but when Nathaniel raised his binoculars to see who it was, the man turned to face his mates. The yawl dashed away, her name and port of call—BLACK WATCH—NEW YORK—blazed in gold across her mahogany transom: a rusticator’s yacht, but a rusticator with a touch of the pirate or smuggler in him, for with her dark hull and superb lines, Black Watch had a buccaneering look.

“I think Dad treats Lockwood like he does because he hardly ever sees him and he sees us all the time,” Drew said, eager to make himself part of the conversation. “Familiarity breeds contempt. I read that in a book.”

Eliot asked what book that might be.

“Dunno. A book somewhere.”

“Shakespeare. It’s from Shakespeare.” Nathaniel was gratified to best his kid brother in the knowledge department. “But you don’t need a book to know that. The trouble with you, Drew, is that you study on things and study on them, and what you end up learning isn’t anything you couldn’t’ve learned just by looking around you instead of in some damned book.”

“Nat … Na-aaat …” Eliot, chiding in a singsong. “You’re doing it again.”

He did not say anything, recalling what Lockwood had told them about protecting your shipmates from yourself.