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 space 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 hell 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'
scraps 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 ship, 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 ship."
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 shoreward 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 ashore, made his way up the beach to
the Great Highway which flanks the shore 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.