notwithstanding the fact that he bathed twice a day, Mr. Reardon's
Hibernian hide contained much of perspiration, coal dust, metal grit
and lubricating oil, and such substances can always be washed off
celluloid collars and cuffs. To his credit be it known that Terence
Reardon knew his haberdashery was not _au fait_, for his wife never
failed to remind him of it; but unfortunately he was the possessor of
a pair of grimy hands that nothing on earth could ever make clean, and
even when he washed them in benzine they always left black thumb
prints on a linen collar during the process of adjustment. He had long
since surrendered to his fate.

At eight-fifty-four Mike Murphy arrived. Murphy was edging up into
the forties, but still he was young enough at heart to take a keen
interest in his personal appearance, and a tailor who belonged to
Michael's council of the Knights of Columbus had decked him out in
a suit of English tweeds of the latest cut and in most excellent
taste.

"Good morning, captain," Cappy Ricks greeted him. "Ahead of time
as usual. Meet Mr. Terence Reardon, late chief of the _Arab_.
He is to be a shipmate of yours--chief of the _Narcissus_,
you know.

"Mr. Reardon, shake hands with Captain Mike Murphy. Captain Murphy
has been in our employ a number of years as master of sail. The
_Narcissus_ will be his first command in steam."

"Terence Reardon, eh?" echoed Mike Murphy pleasantly. "That sounds
like a good name. Glad to meet you, chief. What part of the old
country are you from? The West?"