"Oh, he's crazy enough, Matt, like a fox--so blamed crazy he will not
consider handing over this Retriever to an untried and unknown man who
has been in his employ for less than a voyage. Why, I wouldn't
myself."

"Maybe you think he'll hand her over to you?" Matt asked, with the
suspicion and impetuosity of youth.

"Boy," said Mr. Murphy patiently, "you're getting into deep water
close to the shore. Starboard your helm and put her on the other
tack. If he gives her to me--which he will not--I'll take her. I've
been three years in his employ. I'm capable--"

"Mike," Matt interrupted. "I like you fine, but I want to tell you
that if Cappy Ricks cabled you to take charge, I wouldn't let you.
I'm next in command, and it's only etiquette that I should have my
chance."

"Then," Mr. Murphy murmured sententiously, "there'd be a fight with
skin gloves and I'm afraid you'd get licked, son. I wasted a good
many years in the navy, Matt, and there I learned two things--how to
obey and how to fight with my fists. I was the champion amateur
light-heavy-weight of the Atlantic fleet, and every once in a while
something happens to prove to me that I'm far from being a slouch even
at this late date."

"No offense, Mike. We're crossing our bridges before we come to them,
and besides, I didn't intend to be offensive."