Mr. Murphy hitched his belt, walked to the rail, spat tobacco juice
from between his fingers and came back. "You're the youngest chief
mate I've ever seen, and this is your first berth in that capacity,"
he began. "Suppose you hang on to it and don't be so infernally
generous."

"But you have a first mate's license, haven't you?"

"Certainly. But--"

"No ifs or buts, Mike. The skipper's dead; I was first mate;
consequently I take command of the ship, and by virtue of my authority
I appoint you first mate. That goes. You'll do one of two things,
Mike. You'll be first mate or get out of the ship."

Michael J. Murphy grinned. "You mean that?"

"Naturally."

"If you stick by that determination you'll find yourself on the beach
in Cape Town, unless you conclude to take my recently vacated berth as
second mate. And I'd hate like the devil to have you do that.
There's neither sense nor profit for you in swapping jobs with me."

"But I tell you I'm going to be skipper."

"I know--until old Cappy Ricks sends down a relief captain. If you
promote me now, the relief captain may conclude to retain me as first
mate and then you'd have to take my job or quit the ship; and of