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.
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