"I beg your pardon," said the skipper; "but really I thought you were
a Native Son. My father was drowned there thirty years ago."

"The Peasleys have all died on the Banks sir," Matt replied, much
mollified.

"We'll go down into my cabin and drink a toast to their memory, Mr.
Peasley. It isn't often we skippers out here meet one of our own."

It is hard for a Down-Easter, even though he may have lost the speech
of his people, not to be, partial to his own; and Captain Noah
Kendall, of the barkentine Retriever, was all the cook had declared
him to be. He scolded his Norsk mates so bitterly while the vessel
was taking on cargo at Grays Harbor that both came and asked for their
time an hour before the vessel sailed. However, the old man was aware
they would do this, for he had handled that breed too long not to know
that the Scandinavian sailor on the Pacific Coast quits his job on the
slightest pretext, but never dreams of leaving until he knows that by
so doing he can embarrass the master or owners. Even if the mates had
not quit, Kendall would have discharged them, for it had been in his
mind to try Matt Peasley out as chief mate, and acquire a second mate
with a sweeter disposition than that possessed by the late incumbent.

No sooner had the Norsk mates departed than Captain Noah Kendall paid
a visit to Captain McBride in command of the schooner Nokomis (also a
Blue Star vessel), which had arrived that day and was waiting for the
Retriever's berth at the mill dock, in order to commence loading.

"Mac," quoth Captain Noah, "what kind of a second mate have you got?"