Part 2 (1/2)
CHAPTER IV
McGuffey killed his engine, banked his fires, and came up on deck, wiping his anxious face with a fearfully filthy sweat rag.
At the same time, Scraggs and Neils Halvorsen came crawling aft over the deckload and when they reached the clear s.p.a.ce around the pilot house, Captain Scraggs threw his brown derby on the deck and leaped upon it until, his rage abating ultimately, no power on earth, in the air, or under the sea, could possibly have rehabilitated it and rendered it fit for further wear, even by Captain Scraggs. This petulant practice of jumping on his hat was a habit with Scraggs whenever anything annoyed him particularly and was always infallible evidence that a simple declarative sentence had stuck in his throat.
”Well, old whirling dervish,” Mr. Gibney demanded calmly when Scraggs paused for lack of breath to continue his dance, ”what about it? We're up Salt Creek without a paddle; all h.e.l.l to pay and no pitch hot.”
”McGuffey's fired!” Captain Scraggs screeched.
”Come, come, Scraggsy, old tarpot,” Mr. Gibney soothed. ”This ain't no time for fightin'. Thinkin' an' actin' is all that saves the _Maggie_ now.”
But Captain Scraggs was beyond reason. ”McGuffey's fired!
McGuffey's fired!” he reiterated. ”The dirty rotten wharf rat!
Call yourself an engineer?” he continued, witheringly. ”As an engineer you're a howling success at shoemakin', you slob. I'll fix your clock for you, my hearty. I'll have your ticket took away from you, an' that's no Chinaman's dream, nuther.”
”It's all my fault runnin' by dead reckonin',” the honest Gibney protested. ”Mac ain't to fault. The engine room telegraph busted an' he got the wrong signal.”
”It's his business to see to it that he's got an engine room telegraph that won't bust----”
”You dog!” McGuffey roared and sprang at the skipper, who leaped nimbly up the little ladder to the top of the pilot house and stood prepared to kick Mr. McGuffey in the face should that worthy venture up after him. ”I can't persuade you to git me nothin' that I ought to have. I'm tired workin' with junk an'
sc.r.a.ps an' copper wire and pieces o' string. I'm through!”
”You're right--you're through, because you're fired!” Scraggs shrieked in insane rage. ”Get off my s.h.i.+p, you maritime impostor, or I'll take a pistol to you. Overboard with you, you greasy, addlepated bounder! You're rotten, understand? Rotten! Rotten!
Rotten!”
”You owe me eight dollars an' six bits, Scraggs,” Mr. McGuffey reminded his owner calmly. ”Chuck down the spondulicks an' I'll get off your s.h.i.+p.”
Captain Scraggs was beyond reason, so he tossed the money down to the engineer. ”Now git,” he commanded.
Without further ado, Mr. McGuffey started across the deckload to the fo'castle head. Scraggs could not see him but he could hear him--so he pelted the engineer with potatoes, cabbage heads, and onions, the vegetables descending about the honest McGuffey in a veritable barrage. Even in the darkness several of these missiles took effect.
Upon reaching the very apex of the _Maggie's_ bow, Mr. McGuffey turned and hurled a promise into the darkness: ”If we ever meet again, Scraggs, I'll make Mrs. Scraggs a widow. Paste that in your hat--when you get a new one.”
The _Maggie_ was resting easily on the beach, with the broken water from the long lazy combers surging well up above her water line. At most, six feet of water awaited the engineer, who stood, peering sh.o.r.eward and listening intently, oblivious to the stray missiles which whizzed past. Presently, from out of the fog, he heard a grinding, metallic sound and through a sudden rift in the fog caught a brief glimpse of blue flame with sparks radiating faintly from it.
That settled matters for Bartholomew McGuffey. The metallic sound was the protest from the wheels of a Cliff House trolley car rounding a curve; the blue flame was an electric manifestation due to the intermittent contact of her trolley with the wire, wet with fog. McGuffey knew the exact position of the _Maggie_ now, so he poised a moment on her bow; as a wave swept past him, he leaped overboard, scrambled ash.o.r.e, made his way up the beach to the Great Highway which flanks the sh.o.r.e line between the Cliff House and Ingleside, sought a roadhouse, and warmed his interior with four fingers of whiskey neat. Then, feeling quite content with himself, even in his wet garments, he boarded a city-bound trolley car and departed for the warmth and hospitality of Scab Johnny's sailor boarding house in Oregon Street.
CHAPTER V
Captain Scraggs continued to hurl other people's vegetables into the murk forward for at least two minutes after Mr. McGuffey had shaken the coal dust of the _Maggie_ from his feet, and was only recalled to more practical affairs by the bored voice of Mr.
Gibney.
”The owners o' them artichokes expect to get half a dollar apiece for 'em in New York, Scraggsy. Cut it out, old timer, or you'll have a claim for a freight shortage chalked up agin you.”
”Nothin' matters any more,” Scraggs replied in a choked voice, and immediately sat down on the half-emptied crate of artichokes and commenced to weep bitterly--half because of rage and half because he regarded himself a pauper. Already he had a vision of himself scouring the waterfront in search of a job.
”No use boo-hooin' over spilt milk, Scraggsy.” Always philosophical, the author of the owner's woe sought to carry the disaster off lightly. ”Don't add your salt tears to a saltier sea until you're certain you're a total loss an' no insurance. I got you into this and I suppose it's up to me to get you off, so I guess I'll commence operations.” Suiting the action to the word, Mr. Gibney grasped the whistle cord and a strange, sad, sneezing, wheezy moan resembling the expiring protest of a l.u.s.ty pig and gradually increasing into a long-drawn but respectable whistle rewarded his efforts. For once, he could afford to be prodigal with the steam, and while it lasted there could be no mistaking the fact that here was a steamer in dire distress.