freight proves an embarrassment," this astute individual advised.
"The farmers that own it will soak you a couple o' hundred
dollars for the loss, but what's that with thousands in sight
waitin' to be picked up?"

"Hear that, Gib? Hear that, you swab?"

"I heard it. Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"A nice, brisk little nor'west trade wind that's only blowin'
about thirty mile an hour. The _Maggie_ ain't got power enough to
tow the bark agin that wind. You'll haul her ahead two feet an',
in spite o' you, she'll slip back twenty-five inches."

"That trade wind dies down after sunset," the devilish new mate
informed him.

"Quite true. But in the meantime you're burning coal loafin'
around here, an' before you get the bark inside you'll be plumb
out o' coal," Mr. McGuffey reminded them. "I know this old coffin
like I know the back o' my own hand. Why, she lives on coal!
Oh-h-h, Scraggsy, Scraggsy, poor old Scraggsy," he keened in a
high falsetto voice and subsided on a crate of celery, the while
he waved his legs in the air and affected to be overcome by his
merriment. Scraggs turned the colour of a ripe old Edam cheese,
while Mr. Gibney folded his hands and looked idiotic.

"Old Phineas P. Scraggs, the salvage expert!" McGuffey's falsetto