ssel should be loaded and lying in the stream ready for
sea. Men employed now, he explained, would only desert. The thing to
do was to let a Seattle crimp furnish the crew, sign them on before the
shipping commissioner in Seattle, bring them aboard drunk, tow to sea,
and let the rascals make the best of a bad bargain.

The hold was about half filled, and the ship carpenters were at work
cutting ports in the Retriever's bows, when Matt Peasley discovered that
the mill did not have in hand any order for lumber to be used as stowage
to snug up the cumbersome cargo below decks and keep it from rolling and
working in a seaway. Accordingly he wired his owners as follows:

Cosmopolis, Washington, July 7, 19--.

Blue Star Navigation Company,
258 California St.,
San Francisco, California.

No stowage.

Peasley.

Cappy Ricks having deliberately conspired to hang a series of dirty
cargoes on his newest skipper, for the dual purpose of teaching Matt
Peasley his place and discovering whether he was worthy of it, grinned
evilly when he received that two-word message; and, not to be out-done
in brevity, he dictated this answer:

San Francisco, California, July 7, 19--.

Captain Matthew Peasley,
Master Barkentine Retriever,
Care Weatherby's mill, Cosmopolis, Wash.

Know it.

Blue Star Navigation Company.

Matt Peasley's cheeks burned when he read that message. Indeed, could
Cappy Ricks have been privileged to hear the terse remarks his telegram
elicited, there is no doubt he would have sent Mr. Skinner up to the
custom-house immediately to file a certificate of change of master.

"Ha!" Mr. Murphy snorted when Matt showed him the message. "I get the
old sinner now. This is to be a grudge fight, Captain Matt. You wished
yourself onto him in Cape Town against his will, and now he's made up
his mind that so long as you wanted the job it's yours--only he'll
make you curse the day you ever moved your sea chest into the skipper's
cabin. He's going to send us into dogholes to load and open roadsteads
to discharge; and if he can find a dirty cargo anywhere we'll get it.
But it's carrying a grudge too far not to give us stowage."

"Well, it's his ship," Matt Peabody declared passionately. "If the
old thief can gamble on good weather I guess I can gamble on my
seamanship--