our business an' never replyin' to them vessels that whistle us
they're goin' to pass to port or starboard, as the case may be.
Of course when they whistle, we know what they're goin' to do,
but the trouble is _they_ don't know what we're goin' to do. Dan
Hicks an' Jack Flaherty's been makin' a quiet brag that one o'
these days or nights they'll take advantage o' this well-known
peculiarity of ourn to collide with the _Maggie_ an' sink us, and
in that case we wouldn't have no defense an' no come-back in a
court of law. Me, I don't feel like drownin' in that engine room
or gettin' cut in half by the bow o' the _Bodega_ or the
_Aphrodite_. Consequently, you'd better ship that new boiler you
promised me an' save funeral expenses. We just naturally got to
commence whistlin', Scraggsy."

"We'll commence it when business slacks up," Scraggs decided with
finality.

Mr. Gibney who, up to this moment, had said nothing, now fixed
Captain Scraggs with a piercing glance and threatened him with an
index finger across the cabin table. "We don't have to wait for
the slack season to have that there compass adjusted an' paint
the topsides o' the _Maggie_," he reminded Scraggs. "As for her
upper works, I'll paint them myself on Sundays, if you'll dig up
the paint. How about that program?"

"We'll do it all at once when we lay up to install the boiler,"
Scraggs protested. He glanced at his watch. "Sufferin' sailor!"
he cried in simulated distress. "Here it's one o'clock an' I
ain't collected a dollar o' the freight money from the last
voyage. I must beat it."