"And he'll lose the _Kentigern_ to-night," laughed Dan. "Well, I don't
care. It'll do him good. I hope they put him out of business."

"Thankee, gents, for your Christmas wishes. I'm glad my friends are
with me." The words, in low, mournful cadence, came from the doorway;
and all eyes turning there saw the stout, melancholy figure of Captain
Barney, his great hooked nose falling dejectedly toward his chin, his
hawk eyes dull and sombre. He had been drinking; and as Duffy made as
though to throw a bottle at him, the fallen great man turned and
stumbled away.

A few minutes later Dan left the resort, faced the biting north wind,
and walked slowly up South Street. Somehow he could not get Captain
Barney out of his mind.

The year before, in violation of an explicit agreement, Captain Barney
had worked in with an outside rowboatman from West Street, towing him
to piers where vessels were about to dock. This, of course, got that
boatman on the scene in advance of the Battery men, who had only their
strong arms and their oars to depend upon. Thus the rival had the
first chance at the job of carrying the lines from the docking
steamships to men waiting on the pier to make them fast. Captain
Barney received part of the money which this boatman made. It was
little enough, to be sure, but no amount of money was too small for
him. And so Dan, the Battery boatmen being his friends, was glad to
see Hodge on his knees--yet he was the slickest tugboat-captain on
earth.

Dan could not help admiring him for that; and now he could not dismiss
from his mind the pitiable picture which Murphy's doorway had framed