"Don't say I went behind your back and stole your mate," Kendall
retorted. "And if your second mate is as poor as your whiskey," he
added, piling insult on to injury, "you can have him back when I
return from Cape Town."

Matt Peasley felt that he was going to like Michael J. Murphy. The
latter was Irish, but he had left Ireland at a very tender age and
was, to all intents and purposes, a breezy American citizen, and while
he wore a slight cauliflower in one ear, his broad, kindly humorous
face and alert, bustling manner was assurance that he would be an easy
man to get along with. When the Old Man introduced him to Matt, he
extended a horny right hand that closed on Matt's like the jaws of a
dredger, the while he ran an equally horny left hand up and down the
chief mate's arm.

"I'm sure we'll get along famously together, Mr. Murphy," Matt
suggested.

Again Mr. Murphy ran his hand over that great arm.

"You know it!" he declared with conviction.

Captain Noah laughed aloud, and as Matt scampered forward over the
deckload, herding his savages before him, to receive the tug's breast
line and make it fast on the bitts the skipper turned to Mr. Murphy.

"There's a lad for you," he declared.

"He has manners and muscle, and those are two things that seldom go
together," Mr. Murphy rejoined. "He's Down-Easter, I see. Did Cappy