"Yes, sir."

"Very well. You're the first mate. Mr. Lindstrom"--turning to the
bosun--"you've waited a year for your chance, and here it is. You're
the second mate. Bosun!" He was looking straight at Matt Peasley as
he spoke. Matt did not stir. "Hey, there," the skipper roared, "you
big mountain of meat, step lively!"

Matt stepped lively.

"I am not the bosun, sir," he explained. "I'm just A.B."

"How dare you contradict me?" the Old Man growled. "I tell you, you
don't know what you are yet, barring the fact that you're an American,
and the only one, with the exception of myself, in the whole damned
Scowegian crew. Do you think you could get away with a bosun's job?"

"I could get away with your job if I had the chance, sir," Matt
declared, almost impudently.

"There she blows!" the Old Man declared. "Bless me, if you're not a
Native Son! Nobody but a Native Son would be that fresh. I suppose
this is your second voyage, you puling baby?"

Matt Peasley's dander was up instantly.

"I'm sailor enough to know my way alow or aloft in any weather, sir,"
he retorted.

The captain saw his opening and struck.