sniffed.

"I see you got it too, Mac," Mr. Murphy bawled.

"Aw, weel," Mr. MacLean replied; "Why worrit aboot a bridge till ye
hae to cross it? D'ye ken 'tis oors?"

"What are you two fellows talking about and why are you sniffing?"
Matt Peasley demanded.

"I'm sniffing at the same thing Salvation Pete Hansen laughed about,"
the mate answered. "I'll bet you a uniform cap we're stuck with a
cargo of creosoted piling--and hell hath no fury like a creosoted
pile."

When the vessel had been made fast to the mill dock Matt Peasley
walked forward to meet his mate.

"What about this cargo of ours?" he demanded. "Remember, I'm new to
the lumber trade on this coast. I have never handled any kind of
piling."

"Then, sir, you're going to get your education like the boa
constrictor that swallowed the nigger--all in one long, slimy bite."

He gazed at his boyish skipper appraisingly.

"No," he murmured to himself; "I can't do it. I like you for the way
you whaled that big Swede in Cape Town, but this is too much."