"Yes, an' he's been disapp'inted in his ambitions," McGuffey
agreed. "On top o' that, the Ocean Shore Railroad is buildin'
down the coast an' as soon as the roadbed is completed over the
San Pedro Mountains them farmers'll haul their produce to the
railhead in motor trucks--an' there won't be no more business for
the _Maggie_. Three months more'll see the _Maggie_ laid up."

Mr. Gibney nodded. "It's just the sweet tenderness of Satan we'll
be flush when Scraggsy's broke, Bart."

"Dang it, Gib, I sure feel sorry for the old man after takin' a
look at that engine room. She's a holy fright."

"Well, we'll make up with him when he comes back, Bart, an' if he
shows a contrite sperrit--well, who knows? We might do somethin'
for him."

"He's got to have some financial help to get that engine turnin'
over again, that's a cinch."

"So I been thinkin'. We might lend him a coupler hundred bones at
ten per cent., secured by a mortgage on the _Maggie_, if he's up
agin it hard. Havin' money in bank is one thing but locatin' an
investment for it is another. I've kidded the old man a lot about
the _Maggie_, but she's worth two thousand dollars if somebody'd
spend a thousand on her inner works an' give her a dab o' paint
an' some new fire hose an' one thing an' another."

"We'll wait here until Scraggs shows up an' see what he says. If
he still says 'Good mornin', boys,' we'll answer him civil an'
see what it leads to, Gib."

Mr. Gibney grunted his approval and Mr. McGuffey, bringing out a
pocket knife, fell to manicuring his terrible finger nails and
paring the callous patches off his palms. Mr. Gibney lighted a
Sailor's Delight cigar and puffed meditatively, the while he
watched a gasoline tug kicking the little schooner _Tropic Bird_
into an adjacent berth. From the _Tropic Bird_ came an odour of
copra and pineapple and Mr. Gibney sighed; evidently that South
Sea fragrance aroused in him old memories, for presently he spat
overboard, watched his spittle float away on the tide, sighed
again, and declared, apropos of nothing:

"When I was a young man, Mac, I was a damned fine young man. I
had a bunch o' red whiskers an' a pair o' fists like two picnic
hams. I was a wonder."

Silently Mr. McGuffey nodded an endorsement of his comrade's
indicated horsepower and peculiar masculine beauty in the days of
the latter's vanished youth. He continued to prune his hands.

"I was six feet two in my socks, when I wore any, which wa