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 lusty 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.
The weird call for help brought Scraggs around to a fuller
realization of the enormity of the disaster which had overtaken
him. In his agony, he forgot to curse his navigating officer for
the latter's stubbornness in refusing to turn back when the fog
threatened. He clutched Mr. Gibney by the right arm, thereby
interrupting for an instant the dismal outburst from the
_Maggie's_ siren.
"Gib," he moaned, "I'm a ruined man. How're we ever to get the
old sweetheart off whole? Answer me that, Gib. Answer me, I say.
How're we to get my _Maggie_ off the beach?"
Mr. Gibney shook himself loose from that frantic grip and
continued his pull on the whistle until the _Maggie_, taking a
false note, quavered, moaned, spat steam a minute, and subsided
with what might be termed a nautical sob. "Now see what you've
done," he bawled. "You've made me bust the whistle."
"Answer my question, Gib."
"We'll never get her off if you don't quit interferin' an' give
me time to think. I'll admit there ain't much of a chance,
because it's dead low water now an' just as soon as the tide is
at the flood she'll drive further up the beach an' fall apart."
"Perhaps McGuffey will have heart enough to telephone into the
city for a tug."
"'Tain't scarcely probable, Scraggsy. You abused him vile an'
threw a lot of fodder at him."
"I wish I'd been took with paralysis first," Scraggs wailed
bitterly. "You'd best jump ashore, Gib, an' 'phone in. We're just
below the Cliff House and you can run up to one o' them beach
resorts an' 'phone in to the Red Stack Tug Boat Company."
"'Twouldn't be ethics for me, the registered master o' the
_Maggie_, to desert the ship, Scraggsy, old stick-in-the-mud.
What's the matter with gettin' your own shanks wet?"
"I dassen't, Gib. I've had a touch of chills an' fever ever since
I used to run mate up the San Joaquin sloughs. Here's a nickel to
drop in the telephone slot, Gib. There's a good fellow."
"Scraggsy, you're deludin' yourself. Show me a tugboat skipper
that would come out here on a night like this to pick up the S.S.
_Maggie_, two decks an' no bottom an' loaded with garden truck,
an' I'll wag my ears an' look at the back o' my neck. She ain't
worth it."
"Ain't worth it! Why, man, I paid fifteen hundred hard cash
dollars for her."
"Fourteen hundred an' ninety-nine dollars an' ninety-nine cents
too much. They seen you comin'. However, grantin' for the sake of
argyment that she's worth the tow, the next question them towboat
skippers'll ask is: 'Who's goin' to pay the bill?' It'll be two
hundred an' fifty dollars at the lowest figger, an' if you got
that much credit with the towboat company you're some high
financier. Ain't that logic?"
"I'm afraid," Scraggs replied sadly, "it is. Still, they'd have a
lien on the _Maggie_----"
"Steamer ahoy!" came a voice from the beach.
"Man with a megaphone," Mr. Gibney cried. "Ahoy! Ahoy, there!"
"Who are you an' what's the trouble?"
Captain Scraggs took it upon himself to answer: "American steamer
_Mag_----"
Mr. Gibney sprang upon him tigerishly, placed a horny,
tobacco-smelling palm across Scraggs's mouth and effectively
smothered all further sound. "American steamer _Yankee Prince_,"
he bawled like a veritable Bull of Bashan, "of Boston, Hong Kong
to Frisco with a general cargo of sandal wood, rice, an' silk.
Where're we at?"
"Just outside the Gate. Half a mile south o' the Cliff House."
"Telephone in for a tug. We're in nice shape, restin' easy, but
our rudder's gone an' the after web o' the crank shaft's busted.
Telephone in, my man, an' I'll make it up to you when we get to a
safe anchorage. Who are you?"
"Lindstrom, of the Golden Gate Life Saving Station."
"I'll not forget you, Lindstrom. My owners are Yankees, but
they're sports."
"All right. I'll telephone. On my way!"
"God speed you," murmured Mr. Gibney, and released his hold on
Captain Scraggs, who instantly threw his arms around the
navigating officer's burly neck. "I forgive you, Adelbert," he
crooned. "I forgive you freely. By the tail of the Great Sacred
Bull, you're a marvel. She's an all-night fog or I'm a Chinaman,
and if it only stays thick enough----"
"It'll hold," Gibney retorted doggedly. "It's a tule fog. They
always hold. Quit huggin' me. Your breath's bad. Them eggs, I
guess."
Captain Scraggs, hurled forcibly backward, bumped into the pilot
house, but lost none of his enthusiasm. "You're a jewel," he
declared. "Oh, man, what a head! Whatever made you think of the
_Yankee Prince_?"
"Because," Mr. Gibney answered calmly, "there ain't no such ship,
this land of ours bein' a free republic where princes don't grow.
Still, it's a nice name, Scraggs, old tarpot--more particular
since I thought it up in a hurry. Eh, what?"
"Halvorsen," cried Captain Scraggs.
The lone deckhand emerged from a hole in the freight forward
whither he had retreated to escape the vegetable barrage put over
by Captain Scraggs when McGuffey left the ship. "Aye, aye, sir,"
he boomed.
"All hands below to the galley!" Scraggs shouted. "While we're
waitin' for this here towboat I'll brew a scuttle o' grog to
celebrate the discovery o' real seafarin' talent. Gib, my _dear_
boy, I'm proud of you. No matter what happens, I'll never have no
other navigatin' officer."
"Don't crow till you're out o' the woods," the astute Gibney
warned him.