Cappy Ricks; Or, the Subjugation of Matt Peasley

CHAPTER X. THE BATTLE OF TABLE BAY

In due course Captain Ole Peterson arrived at Cape Town. As the steamer which bore him slipped up Table Bay to her pier All Hands And Feet saw a big barkentine, flying the American flag, at anchor just inside the breakwater and rightly conjectured she was his future command. Three hours ashore proved ample time to consummate all of the Retriever's neglected business. He discovered that the man to whom he was to administer a good, sound, commercial thrashing, as per Cappy Ricks' instructions, had already purchased and gotten aboard stores and water for the voyage back to Grays Harbor, so All Hands And Feet drew some money from the consignees, to be deducted from the freight money, paid off all the vessel's bills, O.K.'d the consignees' statement of account to be forwarded to the owners, received a ninety-day draft on London, in payment of the freight, mailed it to his owners, cleared his vessel, procured a reliable man to witness the formal transfer of authority from Matt Peasley to himself, engaged a launch and set out for the Retriever. All Hands And Feet had had ample time to plan his campaign, and he had planned it well. Immediately upon setting foot on the deck of the Retriever he planned to attack; then, this duty accomplished, he would send his witness ashore, up hook and away. The attack having taken place in British waters All Hands And Feet hoped Matt Peasley would have no redress in American waters; and if he took the complainant to sea with him the man Peasley would, of a certainty, have no legal redress in British waters!

Mr. Murphy was the first to sight All Hands And Feet. The worthy fellow had observed the arrival of the steamer and it had occurred to him that possibly Cappy Ricks' messenger might be aboard her. He had been on the lookout for two hours, accordingly, and the instant he saw a launch coming toward the Retriever his suspicions were fully aroused. He ran below and returned with the two ounce gloves and Captain Kendall's powerful marine glasses, which latter he leveled at the approaching launch, and while the new skipper was still a couple of cable lengths distant, Mr. Murphy recognized him. Instantly he secured the two ounce gloves and ran aft to where Matt Peasley, dressed in slippers, duck trousers and undershirt, sat under an awning reading Sinful Peck.

“Matt,” he declared, “the special messenger will be aboard in about three shakes of a lamb's tail. I recognize him.”

“Who is he?” Matt demanded coolly.

“All Hands And Feet—and believe me, he's there! He isn't a man, Matt, he's a bear—he's a devil, and if he ever gets his hands on you it's Kitty bar the door! Get into the gloves, boy, get into the gloves. You could smash that big Swede to your heart's content, but you wouldn't even stagger him with the first few punches. You'd just break your hands on him before you could knock him out and then he'd walk over you. Into the gloves, Matt, and save your knuckles.”

“All right, Mike. Don't be in such a hurry. Call a couple of hands and let down the companion ladder so the special messenger can bring his dunnage aboard. I'll fight him after I've finished this chapter—that is, if he insists on being accommodated.”

“He'll insist,” Mr. Murphy declared. “He likes it, and the reason he likes it is because he does it well, and that's the reason he's here. He won't waste any ceremony on you, Matt. He's always up and doing.”

Matt finished his chapter of Sinful Peck just as All Hands And Feet, followed by a Cape Town gentleman and two Kru boys, bearing respectively a brown canvas telescope basket and a sea chest, bore down upon him, convoyed by Mr. Murphy.

“A big Swede skipper,” Matt Peasley soliloquized, as he eyed the stranger with alert interest. “Thunder, but he's big. He's the biggest thing I ever saw walking on two legs, with the exception of a trick elephant.” He rose, put down his book and advanced to greet his visitors. While All Hands And Feet was still fully thirty feet from him he bawled aloud:

“You ban Mr. Peasley?”

“Captain Peasley,” young Matt corrected him. “Since the death of Captain Kendall I have been in charge of the vessel; hence, for the present, I am known as Captain Peasley. What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

All Hands And Feet glanced appraisingly at Matt Peasley and did him the honor to remove his coat and vest.

“Yes; it's pretty hot down in these latitudes,” Matt remarked, by way of being pleasant and making conversation.

All Hands And Feet removed an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to Matt; and while the latter perused it the big Swede strode to the scuttle butt and helped himself to a drink of water. Matt opened the envelope and read this communication from Cappy Ricks:

Matt Peasley read this extraordinary communication twice, then folded it and calmly placed it in his pocket.

“May I inquire, sir,” he said, facing the gentleman who had accompanied All Hands And Feet aboard the Retriever, “who you are and the nature of your business?”

“I am the American consul, Mr. Peasley, and I am here at the invitation of Captain Peterson, the master of this ship, to witness the formal transfer of authority from you to him. I was given to understand by Captain Peterson that you might offer some slight objection to this arrangement.”

“Slight objection!” Matt Peasley replied with a rising inflection, and grinned maliciously.

The consul had his Yankee sense of humor with him and chuckled as Matt lifted his big body on his toes and stretched both arms lazily. Then Matthew Peasley turned toward All Hands And Feet.

“I have a letter from the owners of the Retriever,” he said respectfully, “which leads me to presume that you are to supersede me in command of the vessel.” All Hands And Feet nodded. “Which being the case,” Matt Peasley continued, “as a mere matter of formality, you will of course present your credentials as master.”

“Sure!” Ole replied pleasantly, and sidled toward Matt Peasley with outstretched arms. Could Cappy Ricks have seen his skipper then, he would have reminded the Old Man more than ever of a bear.

Matt Peasley needed no blueprint of the big Swede's plans. All Hands And Feet, depending on his sheer horse power and superior weight, always fought in mass formation, as it were. His modus operandi was to embrace his enemy in those terrible arms, squeeze the breath out of him with one bearlike hug, then lay him on the deck, straddle him, and pummel him into insensibility at his leisure. Matt gave ground rapidly and held up a warning hand.

“One moment, my friend,” he requested. “Before you get familiar on brief acquaintance, don't you think you had better present your credentials?”

All Hands And Feet shook his two great fists and grinned good-naturedly.

“How dese ban suit you for credentials?” he queried.

“Fine,” Matt Peasley answered; “only, before you present them, our first duty is to the ship. I take it that you have cleared the vessel and that after trimming me you intend to put to sea.”

“You ban guess it,” the Swede rumbled. “Put up de dooks. Anyhow, I ban't have to fight little feller. Dat ban one comfort.”

“You cleared the ship, eh? Well, Swede, I'm glad to hear that. I should have cleared her myself and sailed long ago if I had only had a skipper's ticket; but these British custom-house officials are great sticklers for red tape and they wouldn't clear me. And, of course, a man can't sail without his papers. When he does they send a gunboat after him. However,” he added brightly “the ship is cleared and the skipper—so I am unofficially informed—is aboard. By the way, Swede, I left a lot of O.K.'d bills for stores and provision up at the office of the Harlow & Benton Company, Limited. Did you square up for them?”

“Yah; everything ban shipshape,” All Hands And Feet assured him.

“And you insist on presenting your credentials in bunches of fives, eh?”

All Hands And Feet nodded and once more commenced sidling toward Matt Peasley, who backed away again, meantime addressing himself to the United States consul:

“You heard what he said, Mr. Consul. He may be my superior officer, but I have not been informed of that fact officially; and meantime, so far as I am concerned, he is merely a fine, big squarehead who has climbed aboard my ship uninvited and attacked me. Did you ever see a sea bully licked, Mr. Consul?”

“I have never had that pleasure, Mr. Peasley.”

All the time Matt Peasley was circling around the deck, with All Hands And Feet sidling after him.

“Then you've got something coming, sir,” Matt replied. “Help yourself to a reserved seat on the rail and watch the joyous procedure. Mr. Murphy?”

“Here, sir,” Mr. Murphy replied promptly.

“I'm going to thrash the big fellow, Mr. Murphy. Stand by to see fair play and keep the crew off him. I observe you have equipped yourself with a belaying-pin. Thank you, Mr. Murphy. You anticipate the situation.”

He turned to All Hands And Feet, who was still crowding him as they circled the deck. “Stop where you are, my friend; otherwise, Mr. Murphy will crack you on the head with the belaying-pin.”

All Hands And Feet grinned patronizingly and paused.

“Vell?” he queried.

“On my ship,” Matt continued, “all fights are pulled off under my rules. Kicking, choking, biting, gouging and deadly weapons are prohibited. If you get me down you can use your fists on me, but anything else will necessitate the interference of the referee with his trusty belaying-pin.”

“Vell?” All Hands And Feet queried again. He was very eager for the fray.

“We have procured a set of two-ounce gloves in anticipation of this physical culture exhibition,” Matt replied. “Unfortunately, however, I fear your hands will not fit them. Would you care to try them on?”

“Cut it oud! Cut it oud!” the enemy rumbled contemptuously, and again commenced his advance.

“One minute, then, my friend, until I put on—”

“Fight mit your bare hands like a man!” the big Swede bellowed scathingly.

“You forget. I told you all fights on my ship are pulled off under my rules. I always fight with two-ounce gloves.”

“All righd. Suit yourself.” All Hands And Feet felt he could afford to give the enemy a trifle the better of the argument without the slightest prejudice to his own chances for success.

Accordingly, Mr. Murphy skillfully bandaged Matt Peasley's hands, drew on the gloves and gently shoved his young champion toward the center of the deck. “Let 'er go!” he announced.

“Come Swede! Present your credentials!” Matt taunted. His long left flashed out and cuffed All Hands And Feet on the nose.

It was a mere love-tap! All Hands And Feet grinned pityingly, and with his left arm guarding his face, rushed.

“Lower deck!” Mr. Murphy warned, and laughed as Matt planted left and right in the midriff and danced away from the Swede's swinging right. All Hands And Feet grunted—a most unwarriorlike grunt—and dropped both hands—whereupon a fog suddenly descended upon his vision. Faintly he made out a blur that was Matt Peasley; bellowing wrathfully he rushed. Matt gave ground and the Swede's vision cleared and he paused to consider the situation.

“No rest for the wicked,” Mr. Murphy declared. “At him, boy, at him!”

All Hands And Feet realized he faced a desperate situation, and as Matt stepped in he ducked and leaped upon his antagonist.

“By yiminy,” he yelled. “I got you now!” and his great hands closed around Matt Peasley's neck.

“Lower deck!” Mr. Murphy yelled shrilly, and a volley of short arm blows commenced to rattle on the big Swede's stomach. For at least seven seconds Matt worked like a pneumatic riveter; then—

“Swing your partner for the grand right and left,” Mr. Murphy counseled, and Matt closed with All Hands And Feet, and managed to shake the badly winded champion off.

“All off,” Mr. Murphy declared to the American consul and dropped his marline-spike, as Matt Peasley ripped left and right, right and left into Ole Peterson's dish face. “Watch the skipper—our skipper, I mean. Regular young human pile-driver.” He raised his voice and called to Matt Peasley. “He's rocking on his legs now, sir; but keep away from those arms. He's dangerous and you're givin' him fifty pounds the best of it in the weights. Try the short ribs with your left and feel for his chin with the right, sir. Very nicely done, sir! Now—once more!”

Mr. Murphy nodded politely to the American consul.

“Excuse me,” he said. “The bigger they are the harder they fall, and the Retriever's deck ain't no nice place to bump a man's head. I'll just skip round in back and catch him in my arms.”

Which being done, Mr. Murphy laid All Hands And Feet gently on deck, walked to the scuttle butt, procured a dipperful of water and threw it into the gory, battered face. Matt Peasley had simply walked round him and, with the advantage of a superior reach, had systematically cut Captain Ole Peterson to strings and ribbons.

He held up the blood-soaked gloves for Mr. Murphy to untie the strings, the while he sniffed a little afternoon breeze that had just sprung up, blowing straight for the open sea.

“When he comes to, Mr. Murphy,” he ordered calmly, “escort him to your old room. Have one of the men stow his dunnage there also; and tell him if he shows his nose on deck until I give him permission, he shall have another taste of the same. Mr. Consul, I should be highly honored if you would step into my cabin and hoist one to our own dear native land.”

“With pleasure,” the consul replied. “Though I cannot, in my capacity as a citizen of the United States, endorse your—er—mutiny, nevertheless, as a United States consul at Cape Town I shall take pleasure in certifying to the fact that the fallen gladiator was the aggressor, that he did not present his credentials, and that you had no official knowledge of his identity.”

“I wish you would make an affidavit to that effect, under the seal of the Consulate, and mail it to me at Hoquiam, Washington, U. S. A.,” Matt pleaded, as they reached his cabin. He reached into poor old Cap'n Noah's little private locker. “I've a suspicion, sir, I'm going to need your affidavit very badly.”

“I shall do so, Mr. Peasley. May I inquire what you purpose doing with Captain Peterson?”

“Captain Peasley—if you please, Mr. Consul.” Matt looked up and grinned. “I think,” he continued, as he inserted the corkscrew, “I shall ship that boy as second mate if he's willing to work. If he's sullen, of course he'll have to remain in his room—and I shall not permit him to present his credentials now.”

“Captain Peasley,” the consul warned seriously. “I'm afraid you're in very, very Dutch.”

“I wouldn't be surprised. However, it will be about three months before I commence to suffer, and in the meantime I'm going to be supremely happy skippering the barkentine Retriever back to Grays Harbor, if they hang me for it when I get there. Say when!”

“When!”

“Here's success to crime, Mr. Consul.”

“Good luck to you, you youthful prodigy; good luck and bon voyage, Mr.—I mean Captain Peasley.”

“Thank you, Mr. Consul. I hate to hurry you away; fact is, I'd like to have you stay aboard and have dinner with us, but if this breeze holds good I can save my owners an outward towage bill, and I'll have to hustle. So I'll bid you good-bye, Mr. Consul. Glad to have had you for the little exhibition. Here is my name and address—and please don't forget that affidavit.”

When the American consul left the ship Matt Peasley was on the poop bawling orders; up on the topgallant forecastle the capable Mr. Murphy and his bully boys were walking around the windlass to the bellowing chorus of Roll A Man Down! while the boatswain, promoted by Matt Peasley to second mate, was laying aloft forward shaking out the topsails and hoisting her head-sails. When the consul looked again, the American barkentine Retriever had turned her tail on Cape Town and was scampering down Table Bay with a bone in her teeth; heeling gently to the freshening breeze, she was rolling home in command of the boy who had joined her five months before as an able seaman.

Matt Peasley rounded the Cape of Good Hope nicely, but he had added materially to his stock of seamanship before he won through the tide-rips off Point Aghulas and squared away across the Indian Ocean. Coming up along the coast of Australia he had the sou'east trades and he crowded her until Mr. Murphy forgot the traditions of the sea, forgot that Matt Peasley was the skipper and hence not to be questioned, and remembered that the madman was only a boy.

“Captain Matt,” he pleaded, “take some clothes off the old girl, for the love of life! She's making steamer time now, and if the breeze freshens you'll lift the sticks out of her.”

“Lift nothing, Mike. I know her. Cap'n Noah told me all about her. You can drive the Retriever until she develops a certain little squeak up forward—and then it's time to shorten sail. She isn't squeaking yet, Mike. Don't worry. She'll let us know,” and his beaming glance wandered aloft to the straining cordage and bellying canvas. “Into it, sweetheart,” he crooned, “into it, girl, and we'll show this Cappy Ricks what we know about sailing a ship that can sail! Meager maritime experience, eh? I'll show him!”

he caroled, and buck-and-winged his way back to the poop, for he was only a boy, life was good, he was fighting a fight and as Mr. Murphy remarked a minute later when Matt ordered him to bend the fore-staysail on her; “What the hell!”

Day and night Matt Peasley drove her into it. He stood far off shore until he ran out of the sou'east trades, fiddled around two days in light airs and then picked up the nor'east trades; drove her well into the north, hauled round and came romping up to Grays Harbor bar seventy-nine days from Cape Town. A bar tug, ranging down the coast, hooked on to him and snaked him in.

CHAPTER XI. MR. SKINNER RECEIVES A TELEGRAM

Cappy Ricks was having his customary mid-afternoon nap in his big swivel chair and his feet on his desk, when Mr. Skinner came in and woke him up.

“I just couldn't help it, sir,” he announced apologetically, as Cappy opened one eye and glared at him, “I had to wake you up and tell you the news.”

“Tell it!” Cappy snapped.

“The Retriever arrived at Grays Harbor this morning, Mr. Ricks. She's broken the record for a fast passage,” and he handed Cappy Ricks a telegram.

“Bless my withered heart!” Cappy declared, and opened his other eye. “You don't tell me? Well, well, well! All Hands And Feet is making good right off the bat, isn't he?” Cappy chuckled. “Skinner, my dear boy,” he bragged, “did you ever see me start out to pick a skipper and hand myself the worst of it?”

“No, sir,” Mr. Skinner maintained dutifully, and turned away to hide a wicked little smile, which under the circumstances Skinner was entitled to.

“And you never will, Skinner. Paste that in your hat, boy. That big Swede, Peterson, can handle a ship as well as he can handle a refractory mate—and that's going some, Skinner—going some! I'm not surprised at his fast passage. Not at all, Skinner. Come to think of it, I'm going to fire that Scotchman in the Fortuna and give All Hands And Feet his berth. He has earned it.”

He adjusted his spectacles and read:

For a long time Cappy Ricks kept looking sternly at Mr. Skinner over the tops of his spectacles. There was blood on the moon again, and the silence was terrible. He kept rocking gently backward and forward in his swivel chair, for all the world as though preparing for a panther-like spring at Mr. Skinner's throat. Suddenly he exploded.

“I won't have another thing to do with the man Peasley!” he shrilled. “The fellow is a thorn in my side and I want peace! Understand, Skinner? I—want—peace! What in blue blazes do I pay you ten thousand a year for if it isn't to give me peace? Answer me that, Skinner.”

“Well you said you wanted to attend to the shipping—”

“That'll do, Skinner—that'll do! You're an honorary member of the I-told-you-so Club and I'm thoroughly disgusted with you. Rid me of this man—immediately. If I ever get another telegram from the scoundrel I shall hold you personally responsible.”

Forthwith Mr. Skinner acted. He went up to the office of the United States District Attorney and swore out a Federal warrant for the arrest of Matthew Peasley on a charge of mutiny and insubordination, assault and battery on the high seas, and everything else he could think of. The authorities promptly wired north to send a United States marshal down to Grays Harbor to arrest the culprit; and the following afternoon, when Cappy Ricks got back to his office after luncheon and picked up the paper, the very first thing his glance rested on was the headline:

Mutiny and sundry other crimes on the high seas are out of the ordinary; hence the United Press correspondent at Hoquiam had considered the story of Matt Peasley's arrest worthy of dissemination over the Pacific Coast.

Cappy Ricks read it, the principal item of interest in it being a purported interview with Matt Peasley, who, in choice newspaperese, had entered a vigorous denial of the charge. The story concluded with the statement that Peasley was a native of Thomaston, Maine, where he had always borne a most excellent reputation for steadiness and sobriety.

Cappy Ricks laid the paper aside.

Thomaston, Maine! So the man Peasley was a Down-Easter! That explained it.

“Well, I hope my teeth may fall into the ocean!” Cappy murmured. “Thomaston, Maine! Why, he's one of our own town boys—one of my own people! Dear, dear, dear! Well now, it's strange I didn't know that name. I must be getting old to forget it.”

He sat in his swivel chair, rocking gently backward and forward for several minutes, after a fashion he had when perturbed. Suddenly his old hand shot out and pressed the push button on his desk, and his stenographer answered.

“Send Mr. Skinner in!” he commanded.

Presently Mr. Skinner came, and again Cappy eyed him over the tops of his spectacles; again the terrible silence. Skinner commenced to fidget.

“Skinner,” began Cappy impressively, “how often have I got to tell you not to interfere with the shipping? Tut, tut! Not a peep out of you, sir—not a peep! You had the audacity, sir, to swear to a Federal warrant against the man Peasley. How dare you, sir? Do you know who the man Peasley is? You don't. Well, sir, I'll tell you. He's a Down-East boy and I went to school with his people. I'll bet Ethan Peasley was a relative of this boy Matt, because Ethan had a cousin by the name of Matthew; and Ethan and Matt and I used to hell around together until they went to sea.

“Lord bless you, Skinner, I can remember yet the day the Martha Peasley came up the harbor, with her flag at half-mast—and poor old Ethan was gone—whipped off the end of her main yard when she rolled!

“We were great chums, Ethan and I, Skinner; and I cried. Why—why, damn it, sir, this boy Matt's people and mine are all buried in the same cemetery back home. Yes, sir! And nearly all of 'em have the same epitaph—'Lost at Sea'—and—you idiot, Skinner! What do you mean, sir, by standing there with your infernal little smile on your smug face? Out of my office, you jackanapes, and call the dogs off this boy Matt. Why, there was never one of his breed that wasn't a man and a seaman, every inch of him.

“All Hands And Feet thrash a Peasley! Huh! A joke! Why, Ethan was six foot six at twenty, with an arm like a fathom of towing cable. Catch me turning down one of our own boys! No, sir! Not by a damned sight!”

In all his life Mr. Skinner had never seen Cappy Ricks so wrought up. He fled at once to call off the dogs, while Cappy turned to his desk and wrote this telegram:

For a week business droned along in Cappy Ricks' office as usual, interrupted at last by the receipt of a telegram from Matt Peasley to Cappy. It was sent from Seattle and read:

“God bless the lad!” Cappy murmured happily. “I'll bet he's going to make me a skookum skipper. Still, I think he's pretty young and sadly in need of training; so I'll have to take some of the conceit out of him. I'm going to proceed to break his young heart; and if he yells murder I'll fire him! On the contrary, if he's one of Ethan's tribe—well, the Peasleys always did their duty; I'll say that for them. I hope he stands the acid.”

Whereupon Cappy Ricks squared round to his desk and wrote:

When Cappy signed his telegrams with the company name it was always a sure indication he had discharged his cargo of sentiment and gotten down to business once more.

“A little creosoted piling now and then is bully for the best of men,” he cackled. “For a month of Sundays that man Peasley will curse me as far as he can smell the Retriever. Oh, well! Every dog must have his day—and I'm a wise old dog. I'll teach that Matt boy some respect for his owners before I'm through with him!”

CHAPTER XII. THE CAMPAIGN OPENS

When Matt Peasley's Yankee combativeness, coupled with the accident of birth in the old home town of Cappy Ricks, gained for him command of the Blue Star Navigation Company's big barkentine, Retriever, he lacked eight days of his twenty-first birthday. He had slightly less beard than the average youth of his years; and, despite the fact that he had been exposed almost constantly to salty gales since his fourteenth birthday, he did not look his age. And of all the ridiculous sights ashore or afloat the most ridiculous is a sea captain with the body of a Hercules and the immature features of an eighteen-year-old boy.

Indeed, such a great, soft, innocent baby type was Matt Peasley that even the limited sense of humor possessed by his motley crew forbade their reference to him, after custom immemorial, as the Old Man. The formal title of captain seemed equally absurd; so they compromised by dubbing him Mother's Darling.

“If,” quoth Mr. Michael Murphy, chief kicker of the Retriever, over a quiet pipe with Mr. Angus MacLean, the second mate, as the vessel lay at anchor in Grays Harbor, “Cappy Ricks had laid eyes on Mother's Darling before ordering him to Seattle to go up for his master's ticket, the old fox would have scuttled the ship sooner than trust that baby with her.”

“Ye'll nae be denying the lad kens his business,” Mr. MacLean declared.

“Aye! True enough, Mac; but 'twould be hard to convince Cappy Ricks o' that. Every skipper in his employ is a graybeard.”

“Mayhap,” the canny MacLean retorted. “That's because t'owd boy's skippers have held their berths ower long.”

But Mr. Murphy shook his head. He had come up from before the mast in the ships of the Blue Star Navigation Company, and since he had ambitions he had been at some pains to acquaint himself with the peculiarities of the president of that corporation.

“Give Cappy Ricks one look into Matt Peasley's face and I'll be skippering the Retriever,” he declared.

And in this he was more than half right, for Cappy Ricks had never met Matt Peasley, and when the Old Man made up his mind that he wanted the boy to skipper his barkentine, the Retriever, he was acting entirely on instinct. He only knew that in Matt Peasley he had a man who had shipped out before the mast and returned from the voyage in command of the ship, and naturally such an exploit challenged recognition of the most signal nature—particularly when, in its performance, the object of Cappy's admiration had demonstrated that he was possessed of certain sterling attributes which are commonly supposed to make for success in any walk of life.

Since Matt Peasley had accomplished a man's work it never occurred to Cappy Ricks to consider that the object of his interest might be a boy. Young he knew him to be—that is to say, Cappy figured the rascal to be somewhere between thirty and thirty-five.

Had he known, however, that his prospective captain had but recently attained his majority the Old Man would have ascribed Matt Peasley's record-breaking voyage from Cape Town to Grays Harbor as sheer luck, and forthwith would have set Master Matthew down for a five-year apprenticeship as first mate; for Cappy was the product of an older day, and held that gray hairs and experience are the prime requisites for a berth as master.

Any young upstart can run coastwise, put in his service sailing a ship from headland to headland, and then take a course in a navigation school, where in six weeks he can cram sufficient navigation into his thick head to pass the inspectors and get a master's ticket; but for offshore cruising Cappy Ricks demanded a real sailor and a thorough business man rolled into one.

Mother's Darling had returned to Grays Harbor from a flying visit to Seattle, where two grizzled old ex-salts, the local inspectors, had put him through a severe examination to ascertain what he knew of Bowditch on Navigation and Nichols on Seamanship. Naturally he did not know as much as they thought he should; but, out of sheer salt-water pride in the exploit of a stripling and in deference to a letter from Cappy Ricks requesting them to waive further probation as chief mate and issue Mr. Peasley his master's license if they found him at all competent—this in order that the said Peasley might take command of his barkentine, the Retriever, forthwith—the inspectors concluded to override the rules of the Department of Commerce, and gave Matt Peasley his master's license.

Upon his return from Seattle, Matt called at the telegraph office in Hoquiam and received his loading instructions from the owners. His heart beat high with youthful importance and the joy of victory as he almost ran to the water front and engaged a big gasoline launch to take him aboard the Retriever and then kick her into the mill dock at Cosmopolis. His ship was not where he had left her, however, and after an hour's search he discovered her several miles up the Chehalis river. Murphy was on deck, gazing wistfully at the house and wishing he had some white paint, when Matt Peasley came aboard. Even before the latter leaped to the deck Mr. Murphy knew the glad tidings—knew them, in fact, the very instant the boy's shining countenance appeared above the rail. The skipper was grinning fatuously and Mr. Murphy grinned back at him.

“Well, sir,” he greeted young Matt, “I see you're the permanent skipper. I congratulate you.”

“Thank you, Mike. And I hope you will have no objection to continuing in your berth as first mate. I realize I'm pretty young for an old sailor like you to be taking orders from—”

“Bless your soul, sir,” Mr. Murphy protested; “of course I'll stick with you! Didn't you whale the big Swede Cappy Ricks sent to Cape Town to kick you out of your just due?” He reaffirmed his loyalty with a contemptuous grunt.

“What are you doing way up the river?” the captain demanded.

“Oh, that's a little liberty I took,” the mate declared. “You're new to this coast; and, of course, when they ordered us to Grays Harbor I knew we weren't going to be able to go on dry dock, because there isn't any dry dock here. So, while you were in Seattle, I had a gasoline tug tow us up-river. We've been lying in fresh water four days, sir, and that'll kill most of the worms on her bottom.”

“Hereafter,” said Matt Peasley, “you get ten dollars a month above the scale. Thank you.”

Mr. Murphy acknowledged his appreciation.

“Any orders, sir?” he continued.

Matt Peasley showed him Cappy Ricks' telegram and Mr. Murphy nodded his approval. He had been in port nearly a week and the whine of the sawmills and the reek of river water had begun to get on his nerves. He was ready for the dark blue again.

“There's something wrong about our cargo, I think,” Matt remarked presently.

“Why, sir?”

“Why, down at the telegraph office this morning I met the master of the schooner, Carrier Dove, and when I told him my orders he snickered.”

“Huh! Well, he ought to know what he snickered about, sir. The Carrier Dove just finished loading at Weatherby's mill,” Mr. Murphy replied. “She's a Blue Star craft and bound for Antofagasta also. Her skipper's Salvation Pete Hansen, and it would be just like that squarehead to dodge a deckload of piling and leave it for us.”

“Well, whatever it was it amused him greatly. It must be worse than a deckload of piling.”

“There's nothing worse in the timber line, unless it's a load underdeck, sir. You take a sixty-foot pile with a fourteen-inch butt and try to shove it down through the hatch, and you've got a job on your hands. And after the hold is half filled you've got to quit loading through the hatch, cut ports in your bows, and shove the sticks in that way. It's the slowest loading and discharging in the world; and unless you drive her between ports and make up for the lost time you don't make a good showing with your owners—and then your job's in danger. Ship owners never consider anything except results.”

“Well,” the captain answered, “in order not to waste any more time than is absolutely necessary, call Mr. MacLean and the cook, and we'll go for'd and break out the anchor.”

Immediately on his arrival from Cape Town, Matt Peasley had paid off all his foremast hands, leaving the two mates and the cook the only men aboard the vessel. He joined them now in a walk around the capstan; the launch hooked on and the Retriever was snaked across the harbor to Weatherby's mill. And, while they were still three cables' length from the mill dock, Mr. Murphy, who had taken up his position on the topgallant forecastle, to be ready with a heaving line, suddenly raised his head and sniffed upwind.

The captain had the wheel and Mr. MacLean was standing aft waiting to do his duty by the stern line. Presently he, too, raised his head and sniffed.

“I see you got it too, Mac,” Mr. Murphy bawled.

“Aw, weel,” Mr. MacLean replied; “Why worrit aboot a bridge till ye hae to cross it? D'ye ken 'tis oors?”

“What are you two fellows talking about and why are you sniffing?” Matt Peasley demanded.

“I'm sniffing at the same thing Salvation Pete Hansen laughed about,” the mate answered. “I'll bet you a uniform cap we're stuck with a cargo of creosoted piling—and hell hath no fury like a creosoted pile.”

When the vessel had been made fast to the mill dock Matt Peasley walked forward to meet his mate.

“What about this cargo of ours?” he demanded. “Remember, I'm new to the lumber trade on this coast. I have never handled any kind of piling.”

“Then, sir, you're going to get your education like the boa constrictor that swallowed the nigger—all in one long, slimy bite.”

He gazed at his boyish skipper appraisingly.

“No,” he murmured to himself; “I can't do it. I like you for the way you whaled that big Swede in Cape Town, but this is too much.”

“Why, I don't find the odor so very unpleasant,” the master declared; “in fact, I rather like it, and I know it's healthy, because I remember, when my brother Ezra had pneumonia, they burned creosote in the room.”

“Oh, nobody objects to the smell particularly, sir, though it's been my experience that anybody can cheapen a good thing by overuse—and we have three months of that smell ahead of us. It's the taste that busts my bobstay.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“Well, you see, sir, the odor of creosote is so heavy it won't float in the air, but just settles down over everything, like mildew on a pair of boots. So it gets in the stores and you taste it. You can store flour below deck aft and creosoted piling on deck for'd—and you won't be out two weeks before that flour is spoiled. Same way with the tea, coffee, sugar, mush, salt-horse—everything. It all tastes of creosote; and then the damned stuff rubs off on the ship and ruins the paintwork. And if the crew happen to have any cuts or abrasions on their hands they're almost certain to get infected with the awful stuff, and you'll be kept busy doctoring them. Then, the first thing, along comes a gale and you're shorthanded, and there's the devil to pay.”

“Aye!” Mr. MacLean interrupted solemnly. “I dinna care for creosote mysel', sir; so, wi' your kind permission, I'll hae ma time—an' I'll hae it noo.”

Matt Peasley bent upon the recalcitrant Scotchman a withering glare. “Very well, Mr. MacLean,” he said presently, “I never could sail in the same ship with a quitter; so you might as well go now, when we can part good friends.” He turned to Mr. Murphy. “How about you, Mike? Are you going to run out on me, too?”

Now, as between the Irish and the Scotch, history records no preponderance of courage in either, for both are Gaels and a comparison is difficult.

However, Scotchmen are a conservative race and will walk round a fight rather than be forced into it, while all that is necessary to make an Irishman fight is to impugn his courage.

Mr. Murphy had seen the fight ahead of the Retriever and he did not blame Mr. MacLean for side-stepping it. Indeed, he had intended pursuing the same course; but Matt Peasley, by his latest remark, had rendered that impossible. To desert now would savor of dishonor; and, moreover, Matt Peasley, though master, had called him by his Christian name. Mr. Murphy touched his forelock respectfully.

“I am not Scotch,” he announced, with a slight emphasis on the pronoun. “Shame on you, Angus MacLean—ditching the skipper like that!”

“Sticks an' stones may break ma bones, but names'll never hur-rt me,” Mr. MacLean retorted. “I tell ye I dinna care for creosote in ma porridge.” And he followed Matt Peasley aft, where the latter paid him off and gave him five minutes to pack and get off the ship. Immediately after supper the cook followed the second mate; but, since the former was a Jap and probably the worst marine cook in the world, his departure occasioned no heartache.

“We'll board at the mill cook-house until we're loaded, Mike,” Matt Peasley informed the mate. “They have a good Chink up there.”

Mr. Murphy sighed as he loaded his pipe and struck a match for it.

“It does look to me, sir,” he replied, with that touch of conscious superiority so noticeable in the Celt, “as though Cappy Ricks might have slipped this cargo to a Dutchman.”

The Retriever commenced taking on cargo at seven o'clock the following morning, with Mr. Murphy on shipboard and Matt Peasley on the dock superintending the gang of stevedores. Ordinarily the masters of lumber freighters ship their crews before commencing to load, in order that sailors at forty dollars a month may obviate the employment of an equal number of stevedores at forty cents an hour; but Mr. Murphy, out of his profound experience, advised against this course, as tending to spread the news of the Retriever's misfortune and militate against securing a crew when the vessel should be loaded and lying in the stream ready for sea. Men employed now, he explained, would only desert. The thing to do was to let a Seattle crimp furnish the crew, sign them on before the shipping commissioner in Seattle, bring them aboard drunk, tow to sea, and let the rascals make the best of a bad bargain.

The hold was about half filled, and the ship carpenters were at work cutting ports in the Retriever's bows, when Matt Peasley discovered that the mill did not have in hand any order for lumber to be used as stowage to snug up the cumbersome cargo below decks and keep it from rolling and working in a seaway. Accordingly he wired his owners as follows: