Lean 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."

"Why, I don't find the odor so very unpleasant," the master declared;
"in fact, I rather like it, and I know it's healthy, because I remember,
when my brother Ezra had pneumonia, they burned creosote in the room."

"Oh, nobody objects to the smell particularly, sir, though it's been my
experience that anybody can cheapen a good thing by overuse--and we have
three months of that smell ahead of us. It's the taste that busts my
bobstay."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Well, you see, sir, the odor of creosote is so heavy it won't float in
the air, but just settles down over everything, like mildew on a pair
of boots. So it gets in the stores and you taste it. You can store flour
below deck aft and creosoted piling on deck for'd--and you won't be out
two weeks before that flour is spoiled. Same way with the tea, coffee,
sugar, mush, salt-horse--everything. It all tastes of creosote; and then
the damned stuff rubs off on the ship and ruins the paintwork. And if
the crew happen to have any cuts or abrasions on their hands they're
almost certain to get infected with the awful stuff, and you'll be
kept busy doctoring them. Then, the first thing, along comes a gale and
you're shorthanded, and there's the devil to pay."

"Aye!" Mr. MacLean interrupted solemnly. "I dinna care for creosote
mysel', sir; so, wi' your kind permission, I'll hae ma time--an' I'll
hae it noo."

Matt Peasley bent upon the recalcitrant Scotchman a withering glare.
"Very well, Mr. MacLean," he said presently, "I never could