He could hear the _Bodega_ and
the _Aphrodite_ tooting as they continued down the bay, so he
knew they were headed for their berths at the foot of Broadway,
fog or no fog.
When Captain Scraggs, having banked his fires, came up out of the
engine room, Mr. Gibney laid a great paw paternally upon the
skipper's shoulder. "Scraggsy, old salamander," he announced, "I
think I've done enough to-night to entitle me to some sleep until
this tule fog lifts. Am I right?"
"You certainly are, Gib, my dear boy."
"Very well, then. I'll turn in. As for you, old sailor, your
night's work is not ended. Have The Squarehead row you ashore in
the skiff; I'll stay up an' work the patent foghorn so he can
find his way back to the _Maggie_, while you hike down town----"
"What for?" Scraggs demanded irritably. "I'm all wore out."
"This adventure ain't ended," Mr. Gibney warned him. "There's a
witness to our perfidy still at large. His name is B. McGuffey,
esquire, an' I'll lay you ten to one you'll find him asleep in
Scab Johnny's boardin' house. Go to him, Scraggsy, an' bring a
pint flask with you when you do; wake him up, beg his pardon,
take him to breakfast, and promise him you'll do somethin' for
his boilers.
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