"Some bright day I'm goin' to git tired o' hearin' you cuss my
proxy," Mr. Gibney bawled after him, "an' when that fatal time
arrives I'll scatter a can o' Kill-Flea over you an' the shippin'
world'll know you no more."
"Oh, go to--glory, you pig-iron polisher," Captain Scraggs tossed
back at him over his shoulder--and honour was satisfied. In the
lee of the pilot house Captain Scraggs paused, set his infamous
old brown derby hat on the deck and leaped furiously upon it with
both feet. Six times he did this; then with a blow of his fist he
knocked the ruin back into a semblance of its original shape and
immediately felt better.
"If I was you, skipper, I'd hold my temper until I got to port;
then I'd git jingled an' forgit my troubles inexpensively,"
somebody advised him.
Scraggs turned. In a little square hatch the head and shoulders
of Mr. Bartholomew McGuffey, chief engineer; first, second and
third assistant engineer, oiler, wiper, water-tender, and
coal-passer of the _Maggie_, appeared. He was standing on the
steel ladder that led up from his stuffy engine room and had
evidently come up, like a whale, for a breath of fresh air.
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