a scuttle of grog it's a case of die dog, or eat the meat-axe. Your
bluff has been called, my son."

"Then," Matt averred impudently, "the only thing for me to do is to
call Cappy's."

"How?"

"Why, give his messenger a good trouncing, of course. You don't
suppose I'm going to stand by and take a thrashing or let the other
fellow heave me overboard, do you? I should say not!"

Mr. Murphy puffed at his pipe, in silence for several minutes, the
while he pondered the situation. Presently he arrived at a solution.

"He wouldn't send a prize-fighter down here, just to lick you," he
announced. "The old man is the wildest spendthrift on earth when you
get him started, but as a general rule his middle name is Tight Wad.
He would select a combination of scrapper and skipper, and there are
any number of such combinations on the beach of 'Frisco town. I could
name you a dozen off-hand, and any one of the dozen would make you
mind your P's and Q's, big as you are. Still, they all fight
alike--rough and tumble, catch-as-catch-can. They come wading in,
swinging both arms and you could sail the Retriever through the
openings they leave. Know anything about boxing, Matt?"

"Not a thing, Mike. I've always had to climb the big fellows."

"Then I'll teach you," Mr. Murphy announced with conviction. "You're
in fine shape now--as right as a fox and fit to tackle the finest, but