and yours."

The mate inclined his head at the delicate compliment; and Matt,
observing this, decided that a few more of the same from time to time
would do much to alleviate a diet of creosote.

CHAPTER XIII. AN OLD FRIEND RETURNS AND CAPPY LEADS ANOTHER ACE

Three days before the Retriever finished loading, the captain wired a
trustworthy Seattle crimp recommended by Mr. Murphy, instructing him to
send down a second mate, eight seamen and a good cook--and to bring them
drunk, because the vessel was laden with creosoted piling. Captain Noah
Kendall, Matt's predecessor on the Retriever, had been raised on clipper
ships and as he grew old had allowed himself the luxury of a third mate,
to which arrangement Cappy Ricks, having a certain affection for Captain
Noah, had never made any objection; but something whispered to Matt
Peasley that the quickest route to Cappy's heart would be via a short
payroll, so he concluded to dispense with a third mate and tack ten
dollars a month extra on the pay-check of the excellent Murphy.

The Retriever was lying in the stream fully loaded when the crew
arrived, convoyed by the crimp's runner. In accordance with instructions
they were drunk, the crimp having furnished his runner with a two-gallon
jug of home-made firewater upon leaving Seattle. One man--the second
mate--was fairly sober, however, and while the launch that bore him to
the Retriever was still half a mile from the vessel the breezes brought
him an aroma which could not, by any possibility, be confused with the
concentrated fragrance of the eight alcoholic breaths being exhaled
around him. Muttering deep curses at his betrayal, he promptly leaped
overboard and essayed to swim ashore. The runner pursued him in the
launch, however, and gaffed him by the collar with a boat-hook; the
launch-man, for a consideration, aided the runner, and the unwilling
wretch was carried struggling to purgatory.

"Oh, look who's here!" Mr. Murphy yelled to the skipper, as
the bedraggled second mate was propelled forcibly up the ship's
companion-ladder to the waiting arms of the first mate. "Welcome home,
Angus, my lad."

It was Mr. MacLean, their quondam second mate, cast back on the deckload
of the Retriever by the resurgent tide of maritime misfortune. Mr.
Murphy sat down and held himself by the middle and laughed until the
tears ran down his ruddy cheeks, while Matt Peasley joined heartily in
the mirth. The unfortunate Mr. MacLean