Tooner Schooner Read Online Free Page A

in one hand and a bucket of soapsuds in the other.
    “Wipe down the paintwork in the forward head.”
    Mrs. Feeley reared back a little as though to unload a few well-chosen remarks.
    “Aye aye, sir.” She saluted smartly.
    “Here.” The captain handed her a sailor’s white hat.
    Mrs. Rasmussen’s head appeared in the hatch.
    “Lookit.” She wore a chef’s white linen hat jammed securely over her hair.
    “Try this on for size.” Captain Dowdy gave Miss Tinkham a yachting cap with an elaborate emblem on it.
    “Really, Captain,” Miss Tinkham beamed, “there is no end to your thoughtfulness.” She put the cap on at a jaunty angle. “Now, how can I be most useful?”
     

     
    “’Sposed to be fifteen of ’em comin’ aboard from some motorcycle club. You check ’em off and collect the money from the man in cha’ge of the chatter.”
    “Where’s the head?” Mrs. Feeley said.
    “Same place ’twas last night. You was in it,” the captain said. “Right behind the vanished door.”
    “The door’s still there.” Mrs. Feeley felt frisky.
    Mrs. Rasmussen was opening cans of kernel corn for her chowder. She operated the crank handle of the can opener blissfully.
    “Ain’t this a bewt?”
    Mrs. Feeley beckoned to her.
    “What’s this say? The print’s too fine for me…” She pointed to a small typewritten notice framed on the inside of the door of the head. Mrs. Rasmussen read it and smiled:
    “‘DO NOT PUT ANYTHING IN THIS HEAD THAT YOU DID NOT SWALLOW FIRST!’ Reckon that about covers it,” she said and went back to the galley. Coming down the hatch she saw the biggest pair of sneakers she had ever seen over hideously shrieking Argyle socks.
    “Hi, Toots.” A great, lumbering young man advanced in all friendliness.
    “What do you want?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
    “Nothin’.”
    “Well, you come to the right place for it.” She went back to the chowder.
    “Ooh,” he said, “snowing down here.”
    Mrs. Feeley started up the ladder, glowering.
    “They better keep outa my head.”
    “Big ock,” Mrs. Rasmussen agreed. “An’ he’s only the first one.” She lowered her voice. “Cap’n makes his livin’ the hard way.”
    Miss Tinkham stood on deck like Lot’s wife. “Do, for heaven’s sake, take a look, dear Captain.”
    “I wish I hadn’t given up swearin’ when the chatter’s aboard,” he groaned. “Pipe that!” A squatty man with a beret came aboard lugging a bass fiddle. “You’ll have to tow that along with the dinghy.”
    “Har, har. Can’t do that, mister. Got my blonde in there.”
    The man turned and beckoned to a blowsy woman with short shorts and a print halter. She came aboard lugging a large leather case.
    “Gretgoddamighty,” Captain Dowdy moaned to Miss Tinkham, “an’ I thought the sack o’ golf clubs was bad! Couldn’t be nothin’ in there but one o’ them blasted stomach Steinways.”
    “I’m afraid so,” Miss Tinkham agreed.
    The passengers sat on the deck, some in low deck chairs, a few on cushions and most of them on their gluteal fat. They munched candy bars and spread cigarette ashes over the spotless deck.
    “The whole sea to dunk their butts in an’ they put ’em on the mahogany rail.”
    A fat woman with dyed red hair opened her knitting bag and took out a Mexican hairless dog. She produced a ripe banana and peeled it: “Pepe has to have his vitamins.” She showed two gold-capped bicuspids. “I hope he doesn’t get seasick.”
    “If he does, you’ll clean it up.” Miss Tinkham handed her a wad of Kleenex, just in case.
    “Only one o’ the beggars missin’.” The captain pulled out his watch. “This might be it now.” Miss Tinkham stared at the moving junkheap that approached the schooner.
    “No, dear Heaven,” she prayed, “not trap drums!”
    “I’d best start up the engine an’ get ready to cast off before I do murder,” the captain whispered desperately. “Wonder if there’s a single one of ’em with