mind to enter one service and stick to it until his abilities should
receive their inevitable reward. To ship as a foremast hand and rise
to captain would be a proud record; so Matt throttled his pride and
faced the future with confidence, and a stomach quite filled with very
good beef stew.

From the cook he learned that the Retriever carried a million feet of
lumber; that she was owned by Cappy Ricks; that Cappy Ricks was the
president of the Blue Star Navigation Company, and the most
contemptible old scoundrel in all the world; that the skipper was a
blue-nose and a devil and a fine man rolled into one; that the
barkentine could sail like a yacht; and that presently they would
up-hook and off to Grays Harbor, Washington, there to load a cargo of
fir lumber for Cape Town. And would Matt mind slipping ashore and
buying the cook a bottle of whiskey, for which the latter would settle
very minute he could get an advance out of the Old Man. No?
Disgusted, the cook rattled his pans and dismissed Matt as one
unworthy of further confidence.

Just before the tug came alongside to snake her outside the Heads, the
mate came aboard with his leerail pretty well under and was indiscreet
enough to toss a piece of his lip at the Old Man. Five minutes later
he was paid and off and kicked out on the dock, while the cook packed
his sea bag and tossed it overside after him. The captain, thereupon,
bawled for the second mate, who came running. Matt noticed this and
decided that should the Old Man ever bawl for him he would come
running too.

"Mr.Swenson, you have a chief mate's license, have you not?"