Captain Scraggs | Page 2

to put to sea the same night so's
to be back in Halfmoon Bay to load bright an' early next mornin'.
Scraggsy, I ain't no night bird on this run."
"Do you mean to defy me, Gib?" Captain Scraggs' little green eyes

gleamed balefully. Mr. Gibney looked down upon him with tolerance,
as a Great Dane gazes upon a fox terrier. "I certainly do, Scraggsy, old
pepper-pot," he replied calmly. "What're you goin' to do about it?" The
ghost of a smile lighted his jovial countenance.
"Nothin'--now. I'm helpless," Captain Scraggs answered with deadly
calm. "But the minute we hit the dock you an' me parts company."
"I don't know whether we will or not, Scraggsy. I ain't heeled right
financially to hit the beach on such short notice."
"That ain't no skin off'n my nose, Gib."
"Well, you can fire all you want, but you won't fire me. I won't go."
"I'll get the police to remove you, you blistered pirate," Scraggs
screamed, now quite beside himself.
"Yes? Well, the minute they let go o' me I'll come back to the S.S.
Maggie and tear her apart just to see what makes her go." He leaned out
the pilot house window and sniffed. "Tule fog, all right, Scraggs. Still,
that ain't no reason why the ship's company should fast, is it? Quit
bickerin' with me, little one, an' see if you can't wrastle up some ham
an' eggs. I want my eggs sunny side up."
Sensing the futility of further argument, Captain Scraggs sought solace
in a stream of adjectival opprobrium, plainly meant for Mr. Gibney but
delivered, nevertheless, impersonally. He closed the pilot house door
furiously behind him and started for the galley.
"Some bright day I'm goin' to git tired o' hearin' you cuss my proxy,"
Mr. Gibney bawled after him, "an' when that fatal time arrives I'll
scatter a can o' Kill-Flea over you an' the shippin' world'll know you no
more."
"Oh, go to--glory, you pig-iron polisher," Captain Scraggs tossed back
at him over his shoulder--and honour was satisfied. In the lee of the
pilot house Captain Scraggs paused, set his infamous old brown derby

hat on the deck and leaped furiously upon it with both feet. Six times
he did this; then with a blow of his fist he knocked the ruin back into a
semblance of its original shape and immediately felt better.
"If I was you, skipper, I'd hold my temper until I got to port; then I'd git
jingled an' forgit my troubles inexpensively," somebody advised him.
Scraggs turned. In a little square hatch the head and shoulders of Mr.
Bartholomew McGuffey, chief engineer; first, second and third
assistant engineer, oiler, wiper, water-tender, and coal-passer of the
Maggie, appeared. He was standing on the steel ladder that led up from
his stuffy engine room and had evidently come up, like a whale, for a
breath of fresh air. "The way you ruin them bonnets o' yourn sure is a
scandal," Mr. McGuffey concluded. "If I had a temper as nasty as
yourn I'd take soothin' syrup or somethin' for it."
Without waiting for a reply, Mr. McGuffey dropped back into his
department and Captain Scraggs, his soul filled with rage and dire
forebodings, repaired to the galley, and "candled" four dozen eggs. Out
of the four dozen he found nine with black spots in them and carefully
set them aside to be fried, sunny side up, for Mr. Gibney and
McGuffey.
CHAPTER II
Before proceeding further with this narrative, due respect for the
reader's curiosity directs that we diverge for a period sufficient to
present a brief history of the steamer Maggie and her peculiar crew. We
will begin with the Maggie.
She had been built on Puget Sound back in the eighties, and was one
hundred and six feet over all, twenty-six feet beam and seven feet draft.
Driven by a little steeple compound engine, in the pride of her youth
she could make ten knots. However, what with old age and boiler scale,
the best she could do now was six, and had Mr. McGuffey paid the
slightest heed to the limitations imposed upon his steam gauge by the
Supervising Inspector of Boilers at San Francisco, she would have been
limited to five. Each annual inspection threatened to be her last, and

Captain Scraggs, her sole owner, lived in perpetual fear that eventually
the day must arrive when, to save the lives of himself and his crew, he
would be forced to ship a new boiler and renew the rotten timbers
around her deadwood. She had come into Captain Scraggs's possession
at public auction conducted by the United States Marshal, following
her capture as she sneaked into San Francisco Bay one dark night with
a load of Chinamen and opium from Ensenada.