"and you're
the meanest man I ever knew, so I'll not shake dice with you. You're too
fond of having your own way--"

"Yes, and you're the same, blast you!" Cappy shrilled, losing his temper
entirely. "Wait till you're my age. There won't be any standing you at
all. Get out!"

CHAPTER XXXIV. A GIFT FROM THE GODS

The barkentine Retriever, lumber laden from Astoria to San Francisco,
lay under the lee of Point Reyes in a dead calm. It was a beautiful,
moonlit night, with the sea as smooth as a fishpond, and Captain Michael
J. Murphy, albeit a trifle surprised at his proximity to the California
coast--the result of three days and nights of thick fog, which had
suddenly lifted--was not particularly worried. At eight o'clock he
turned in, after warning the mate to call him in case the Retriever
should drift inshore.

"Never fear, sir," the mate replied. "We'll have a puff of wind about
daylight at the latest, and the current sets north and south here rather
than toward the beach."

For two hours after Captain Murphy had retired the Retriever rose and
fell gently on the slightest swell, her booms and yards swinging idly
amidships, her sails and cordage slatting listlessly as the vessel
rolled.

Suddenly the lookout shouted: "Steamer on the port bow!" and the mate,
following the direction indicated, made out the red and green sidelights
and the single white light at the short masthead of the approaching
vessel.

"Tug," he announced to the man at the wheel. "Good enough! The lookout
at Point Reyes reported us, and the owners have sent a tug out to snake
us in."

The mate's prognostication was correct in some particulars, for in about
half an hour the tug steamed slowly alongside the Retriever and hailed
her.

"Barkentine, ahoy!"

"Ahoy! Retriever, of the Blue Star, Astoria for San Francisco."

"Sea Fox, of the Red Stack Line. Is Captain Murphy on deck?"

"No, but I'll send for him," the mate shouted, and forthwith sent a man
below to rout out the skipper. When Murphy came on deck and hailed the
tug he nearly fainted at the information that came floating across the
water.

"Murphy, this is Matt Peasley speaking."

"Not Matt Peasley that used to command this old box--"

"Don't speak disrespectfully of my first command, Mike--"

"And you're only a tug captain--a dirty, thieving, piratical towboat
man, holding up every honest skipper that pokes his nose into San
Francisco Bay. Matt, I'm ashamed of you.