bravely to appear nonchalant. With his eyes on the fried eggs and
his mouth threatening to slaver at the glorious sight, he said:

"Hello, there, Scraggsy, old tarpot. How goes it with the owner
o' the fast an' commodious steamer _Maggie_? Git that consignment
o' post-holes aboard yet?"

Mr. Gibney's honest face beamed expectantly, for he was
particularly partial to fried eggs. As for his companion in
distress, anything edible and which would serve to nullify the
gnawing at his internal economy would be welcome. Inasmuch as
Captain Scraggs did not readily reply to Mr. Gibney's salutation,
McGuffey decided to be more emphatic and to the point, albeit in
a joking way.

"Hurry up with them eggs, Scraggs," he rumbled. "Me an' Gib's
walked down from the city an' we're hungry. Jawn D. Rockerfeller'd
give a million dollars for my appetite. Fry mine hard, Scraggsy.
I want somethin' solid."

Scraggs looked up and his cold green eyes were agleam with malice
and triumph as they rested on the unhappy pair. However, he
smiled--a smile reminiscent of a cat that has just eaten a
canary--and cold chills ran down the backs of the exhausted
travellers. "Hello, boys," he piped. He turned from them to toss
a few strips of bacon into the grease with the eggs; then he
peered into the coffee pot and set it on the back of the galley
range to simmer, before facing his guests again. His attitude was
so significant that Mr. Gibney queried mournfully: