"It's as black," quoted Mr. Gibney as he entered, "as the Earl of
Hell's riding boots."
"And as thick," snarled Scraggs, "as McGuffey's head. Lordy me,
Gib, but it's thick. You'd think every bloomin' steam pipe in the
universe had busted."
"If they was all like the _Maggie's_," Mr. Gibney retorted drily,
"we wouldn't need to worry none. Not wishin' to change the
conversation, Scraggsy, but referrin' to them eggs you slipped me
and Bart for supper, all I gotta say is that the next time you go
marketin' in ancient Egypt, me an' Mac's goin' to tell the real
story o' the S.S. _Maggie_ to the Inspectors. Now, that goes.
Scatter along aft, Scraggs, and let me know what that taffrail
log has to say about it."
Captain Scraggs read the log and reported the mileage to Mr.
Gibney, who figured with the stub of a pencil on the pilot house
wall, wagged his head, and appeared satisfied. "Better go for'd,"
he ordered, "an' help The Squarehead on the lookout. At eight
o'clock we ought to be right under the lee o' Point San Pedro;
when I whistle we ought to catch the echo thrown back by the
cliff. Listen for it."
Promptly at eight o'clock, Mr. McGuffey was horrified to see his
steam gauge drop half a pound as the _Maggie's_ siren sounded.
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