“Sure, come ahead,” Faraday said cordially.
The two men mounted the narrow gangplank and stepped on deck. Ellen stuck her golden blonde head from the galley at that moment.
“Breakfast,” she called, then saw the strangers. “Oh, we have visitors.”
She came the rest of the way out on deck, with typical femininity looking a little self-conscious about her worn denim jeans, white cotton sweatshirt and bare feet. She needn’t have been self-conscious, Faraday thought with pride. Even in fishing clothes she was beautiful.
He said to the visitors, “My name is Mike Faraday and this is my wife Ellen.”
Both men set down their fishing gear, removed their hats and offered Ellen formal bows, which gave Faraday the first inkling that there was something strange about them. He had already noted their precise, unaccented voices, but had merely assumed they were probably graduates of some Ivy League school. Now it struck him that Americans don’t normally bow to women when introduced.
He wondered why a pair of obviously cultured Europeans would be fishing with the wrong gear from a muddy bank of the Mississippi.
Both men offered their hands to Faraday. The taller man said his name was Albert Johnson, the bulky man introduced himself as Martin Smith.
“Your name is Michael Faraday?” Smith said. “The same as the famous English scientist?”
“I was named after him,” Faraday said. “I’m supposed to be descended from him.”
Ellen said with wifely pride, “Mike is a greater scientist than his ancestor. He’s a professor of theoretical math at Washington University in St. Louis, and is internationally known for his work in that field.”
The thin-nosed Albert Johnson said, “I have read of you in the science sections of various news magazines. Have you not just developed a revolutionary new rocket fuel?”
“Not quite,” Faraday said. “Merely a new mathematical theorem which may lead to the development of a new type of fuel, among other things. I’m a theoretical scientist. I work with computers instead of test tubes.”
“We have something in common,” Johnson said with a smile. “Mr. Smith and I are partners in an electronics firm in Massachusetts.”
“Oh?” Faraday said, wondering if perhaps their accents were merely New England after all. “I’m afraid practical science is beyond me. Aside from computers, about the only scientific equipment I use is a pencil.”
“He’s just being modest,” Ellen said with a grin. “What he means is that he’s beyond the practical scientists. Only a half dozen men in his own field understand him. Have you gentlemen had breakfast?”
The bulky Martin Smith said, “We ate before dawn, but I would appreciate a cup of coffee.”
“I could use one too,” the tall man agreed.
The visitors had coffee with them in the galley while Faraday and Ellen breakfasted on bacon and eggs. Afterward Faraday showed them around the houseboat.
The men seemed impressed by the comfortable amount of room and the modern facilities. In addition to the galley, which was really a full-sized kitchen and doubled as a dining room and general lounge, there was a bathroom with a shower, two bunk rooms with four bunks each and a storage room. The kitchen was equipped with a butane stove and a butane refrigerator. There were Coleman gasoline lanterns to furnish light.
“There’s a pump with a filter which removes most of the mud from river water for the storage tank on the roof,” Faraday explained. “We can’t drink it, of course, but it’s adequate for washing. We carry bottled water for drinking. I plan to replenish our supply here; then we won’t have to stop for any sort of supplies until we reach New Orleans. Except for drinking water the boat is pretty self-sufficient.”
When they returned to the galley, where Ellen was washing the breakfast dishes, Albert Johnson said reflectively, “At fifty miles a day, it would be about sixteen days from St. Louis to New Orleans. Since you’re five hundred miles on your way, I assume you’ve been sailing about ten days.”
“That’s right,” Faraday said. “We left July tenth.”
“Then you should arrive in New Orleans in six more days?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mr. Smith and I have only a week of our vacation left, so we hardly have time to go clear up to St. Louis and rent a houseboat,” Johnson said. “You have more than enough bunk space here, Mr. Faraday. Would you be interested in a couple of paying guests for the rest of the voyage?”
Faraday was framing a polite refusal when Ellen, who was something of a penny-pincher, said quickly, “How paying?”
The thin-nosed man threw her a pleasant smile. “We would be willing to assume the full cost of the boat rental if you threw in our food.”
“You mean all four hundred dollars?” Ellen asked, wide-eyed.
Albert Johnson shrugged. “We can write it off as a business expense. As I say, we don’t have time to run up to St. Louis and arrange our own voyage. It would be worth it to us. We have been fishing from the bank for a week without catching anything.”
A warning bell sounded in Faraday’s mind. Neither looked as though he had been fishing from a river bank for a full week. Besides, it was peculiar that fishermen would travel all the way from Massachusetts to fish the Mississippi River. New England was too full of better fishing spots. It just didn’t make sense.
If they could afford four hundred dollars for passage on the houseboat, why hadn’t they rented a boat for fishing? Remembering the buss plugs they had been using, he suddenly decided they were complete frauds.
“This is a sort of second honeymoon for us,” he said. “Your offer is very generous, but we prefer to be alone.”
“But, honey,” Ellen protested. “Four hundred dollars!”
“I have a reasonably good income,” Faraday said a trifle testily. “Let’s not change plans in midstream, Ellen.”
“We are not yet in midstream,” Johnson said with an indulgent chuckle. “We are still tied up to the bank. Mrs. Faraday obviously would like at least to discuss it. It would take us only a few minutes to run back to the hotel and get our luggage. We have a car parked at the top of the bank.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Faraday said firmly. “I’m not interested in your offer.”
Ellen could tell by his tone that there was no use arguing. With an apologetic smile at the two would-be passengers, she began putting dishes away.
The wide-shouldered Martin Smith went over to the galley window facing the bank and looked out.
“Picnic party gathering on the beach,” he said tonelessly.
Albert Johnson went over to look too. Then he turned with a smile.
“I guess we will run along, Mr. and Mrs. Faraday. Thank you for the coffee and the tour of the boat. If you change your minds about taking on a couple of paying passengers, we are staying at the Vicksburg Inn.”
“We won’t,” Faraday assured him. “It was nice talking to you both.”
“The same to you,” the thin-nosed man said. “Come along, Martin.”
The two men moved out into the passageway between the galley and the bunk rooms, and then out on deck. Faraday and Ellen followed.
A group of about a dozen teenagers in swim suits had gathered on a small stretch of sand at the river’s edge only a few yards downstream and were laying out blankets and picnic baskets.
The visitors picked up their fishing gear, nodded final good-bys and made their ways down the gangplank. Apparently they were through fishing, because they climbed a steep path up the bank and disappeared over its top.
Ellen said, “Why were you so set against our having a free vacation? We’re not that rich.”
Faraday was still gazing at the top of the bank. In a slow voice he said, “I have a peculiar feeling that if those kids over there hadn’t appeared, it wouldn’t have been so easy to turn them down.”