Cappy Ricks | Page 6

sir,"
he retorted.
The captain saw his opening and struck.
"What's the ring-tail?" he demanded.
"It's a studdin'-s'l on the gaff of a fore-an'-aft, sail, sir. You haven't got
one on the Retriever, sir."
"Huh! You've been reading W. Clark Russell's sea yarns," the skipper
charged. "He was quite a pen-an'-paper sailor when it came to
square-rigged ships, but he didn't have much to say about six-masted
schooners. You see, they didn't build them in his day. Now then, son,
name the sticks on a six-legged schooner, and be sure and name 'em
right."
"Fore, main, mizzen, spanker, jigger and driver, sir," Matt fired back at
him.
"Bully for you, my son. You're the third mate. Cappy Ricks allows me
the luxury of a third mate whenever I run across a young fellow that
appears to be worth a whoop in hell, so grab your duds, and go aft, and

don't bring any cockroaches with you. I'll dig up a bosun among the
squareheads."
"Thank you, sir."
"Name?"
"Mr. Peasley, sir."
Since he was no longer an A B., young Matt concluded he might as
well accord himself the respect due him as a ship's officer; so he tacked
on the Mister, just to show the Old Man he knew his place. The master
noted that; also, the slurring of the sir as only a sailor can slur it.
"I shouldn't wonder if you'd do," he remarked as Matt passed him on
his way to the forecastle for his dunnage.
On his way back he carried his bag over his shoulder and his framed
license in his left hand. Two savages were following with his sea chest.
I do declare!" the skipper cried. "If that lubberly boy hasn't got some
sort of a ticket! Let me see it, Mr. Peasley." And he snatched it out of
his grasp.
"So, you're a first mate of sail, for any ocean and any tonnage, eh?" he
said presently. "Are you sure this ticket doesn't belong to your father?"
"Sir," declared the exasperated Matt, "I never asked you for this job of
third mate; and if I've got to stomach your insults to hold it down I
don't want it. That's my ticket and I'm fully capable of living up to it."
"I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Peasley, because if you're not I'll be the first
one to find it out--and don't you forget it! I'll have no marine impostors
aboard my ship. Where do they ship little boys before the mast, Mr.
Peasley?"
"On the Grand Banks, sir."
"I beg your pardon," said the skipper; "but really I thought you were a

Native Son. My father was drowned there thirty years ago."
"The Peasleys have all died on the Banks sir," Matt replied, much
mollified.
"We'll go down into my cabin and drink a toast to their memory, Mr.
Peasley. It isn't often we skippers out here meet one of our own."
It is hard for a Down-Easter, even though he may have lost the speech
of his people, not to be, partial to his own; and Captain Noah Kendall,
of the barkentine Retriever, was all the cook had declared him to be. He
scolded his Norsk mates so bitterly while the vessel was taking on
cargo at Grays Harbor that both came and asked for their time an hour
before the vessel sailed. However, the old man was aware they would
do this, for he had handled that breed too long not to know that the
Scandinavian sailor on the Pacific Coast quits his job on the slightest
pretext, but never dreams of leaving until he knows that by so doing he
can embarrass the master or owners. Even if the mates had not quit,
Kendall would have discharged them, for it had been in his mind to try
Matt Peasley out as chief mate, and acquire a second mate with a
sweeter disposition than that possessed by the late incumbent.
No sooner had the Norsk mates departed than Captain Noah Kendall
paid a visit to Captain McBride in command of the schooner Nokomis
(also a Blue Star vessel), which had arrived that day and was waiting
for the Retriever's berth at the mill dock, in order to commence loading.
"Mac," quoth Captain Noah, "what kind of a second mate have you
got?"
"A no-good Irish hound named Murphy," McBride replied promptly,
for he had heard rumors of war aboard the Retriever and something told
him Kendall had come to borrow his second mate, in order that the
Retriever might tow out immediately. A canny, cunning lad was
McBride, but for all his Scotch blood he was no match for Captain
Noah Kendall.
"I heard he wasn't worth two squirts of bilge water," Captain Noah lied

glibly. "However, I'll take him off your hands