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. How are you anyhow?”
“Fine, Mike. Want a tow?”
“I don't need one; I'll have a bit of breeze before long. I'm
independent of you!”
The tug crept in closer. “Don't be foolish, Mike; better let me slip you
a line.”
“How much will it cost, Matt? None of your highway robbery now. Be easy
on the Retriever for old times' sake.”
“A thousand dollars,” Matt Peasley answered pleasantly, and was rewarded
with a volley of oaths from Mike Murphy and his crew.
“You're a thief!” yelled Murphy.
“And you're a fool, Mike. You're not more than two miles off the
breakers, you're in a calm that may last two days, and when the tide is
at flood you'll set in on the beach as sure as death and taxes--and then
I'll have a salvage job that will cost your owners not one thousand but
ten.”
“You go to the devil!” was Murphy's reply to this, and the Sea Fox
dropped astern and came round on the starboard bow of the Retriever. In
she backed, a foot at a time, and Captain Murphy, up on the topgallant
fo'castle, was within easy conversational distance of Matt Peasley,
standing on the grating at the stern of the Sea Fox.
“Better grab this heaving line, Mike,” Matt suggested.
“Come aboard and have a drink, Matt, but leave your line behind you,”
Murphy answered hospitably.
The Sea Fox drifted down fifteen or twenty feet, swung slowly, headed
out to sea, and then backed gingerly in until her stern was within a few
feet of the side of the Retriever.
“Hey, you! What d'ye mean to do? Back into her?” yelled Matt Peasley to
his mate. “Full speed ahead! Quick!”
A bell jangled in the bowels of the Sea Fox, her great screw churned the
water and she shot out from the Retriever.
“That's right! Go clear over to China, and expect me to haggle with this
man through the megaphone, eh?” Matt roared. “Back up again!”
“I tell you, Matt, there isn't the slightest use hanging round for us,”
Murphy warned the towboat skipper. “I wouldn't let the ship be held up
by anybody, least of all a towboat man.”
“Well, when the lookout on Point Reyes telephoned into our office that
the Retriever was inside the Point, I made up my mind I'd come out and
get her, and I don't purpose being disappointed,” Matt replied jokingly.
“I'll just wait until you drift into the breakers, and then you'll do
business with me, never fear.”
“G'wan!” snorted Murphy. “How's Cappy Ricks, the old villain?”
“He's fine, Mike. He wanted me to work for him, but I don't like his
general manager--Mr. Olson, full speed ahead or you'll smash our stern
against this barkentine. Steady! That's better. Astern a trifle. Steady!
Mike, how've you been since I saw you last?”