McGuffey killed his engine, banked his fires, and came up on
deck, wiping his anxious face with a fearfully filthy sweat rag.
At the same time, Scraggs and Neils Halvorsen came crawling aft
over the deckload and when they reached the clear space around
the pilot house, Captain Scraggs threw his brown derby on the
deck and leaped upon it until, his rage abating ultimately, no
power on earth, in the air, or under the sea, could possibly have
rehabilitated it and rendered it fit for further wear, even by
Captain Scraggs. This petulant practice of jumping on his hat was
a habit with Scraggs whenever anything annoyed him particularly
and was always infallible evidence that a simple declarative
sentence had stuck in his throat.

"Well, old whirling dervish," Mr. Gibney demanded calmly when
Scraggs paused for lack of breath to continue his dance, "what
about it? We're up Salt Creek without a paddle; all hell to pay
and no pitch hot."

"McGuffey's fired!" Captain Scraggs screeched.

"Come, come, Scraggsy, old tarpot," Mr. Gibney soothed. "This
ain't no time for fightin'. Thinkin' an' actin' is all that saves
the _Maggie_ now."

But Captain Scraggs was beyond reason. "McGuffey's fired!
McGuffey's fired!" he reiterated. "The dirty rotten wharf rat!
Call yourself an engineer?" he continued, witheringly. "As an
engineer you're a howling success at shoemakin', you slob. I'll
fix your clock for you, my hearty. I'll have your ticket took