When the American consul left the ship Matt Peasley was on the poop
bawling orders; up on the topgallant forecastle the capable Mr. Murphy
and his bully boys were walking around the windlass to the bellowing
chorus of Roll A Man Down! while the boatswain, promoted by Matt
Peasley to second mate, was laying aloft forward shaking out the
topsails and hoisting her head-sails. When the consul looked again,
the American barkentine Retriever had turned her tail on Cape Town and
was scampering down Table Bay with a bone in her teeth; heeling gently
to the freshening breeze, she was rolling home in command of the boy
who had joined her five months before as an able seaman.

Matt Peasley rounded the Cape of Good Hope nicely, but he had added
materially to his stock of seamanship before he won through the
tide-rips off Point Aghulas and squared away across the Indian Ocean.
Coming up along the coast of Australia he had the sou'east trades and
he crowded her until Mr. Murphy forgot the traditions of the sea,
forgot that Matt Peasley was the skipper and hence not to be
questioned, and remembered that the madman was only a boy.

"Captain Matt," he pleaded, "take some clothes off the old girl, for
the love of life! She's making steamer time now, and if the breeze
freshens you'll lift the sticks out of her."

"Lift nothing, Mike. I know her. Cap'n Noah told me all about her.
You can drive the Retriever until she develops a certain little squeak
up forward--and then it's time to shorten sail. She isn't squeaking
yet, Mike. Don't worry. She'll let us know," and his beaming glance
wandered aloft to the straining cordage and bellying canvas. "Into
it, sweetheart," he crooned, "into it, girl, and we'll show this Cappy
Ricks what we know about sailing a ship that can sail! Meager