it until his abilities should receive their inevitable reward.
To ship as a foremast hand and rise to captain would be a proud record;
so Matt throttled his pride and faced the future with confidence, and a
stomach quite filled with very good beef stew.

From the cook he learned that the Retriever carried a million feet of
lumber; that she was owned by Cappy Ricks; that Cappy Ricks was the
president of the Blue Star Navigation Company, and the most contemptible
old scoundrel in all the world; that the skipper was a blue-nose and
a devil and a fine man rolled into one; that the barkentine could sail
like a yacht; and that presently they would up-hook and off to Grays
Harbor, Washington, there to load a cargo of fir lumber for Cape Town.
And would Matt mind slipping ashore and buying the cook a bottle of
whiskey, for which the latter would settle very minute he could get an
advance out of the Old Man. No? Disgusted, the cook rattled his pans and
dismissed Matt as one unworthy of further confidence.

Just before the tug came alongside to snake her outside the Heads, the
mate came aboard with his lee rail pretty well under and was indiscreet
enough to toss a piece of his lip at the Old Man. Five minutes later he
was paid and off and kicked out on the dock, while the cook packed his
sea bag and tossed it overside after him. The captain, thereupon, bawled
for the second mate, who came running. Matt noticed this and decided
that should the Old Man ever bawl for him he would come running too.

"Mr. Swenson, you have a chief mate's license, have you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. You're the first mate. Mr. Lindstrom"--turning to the
bosun--"you've waited a year for your chance, and here it is. You're
the second mate. Bosun!" He was looking straight at Matt Peasley as he
spoke. Matt did not stir. "Hey, there," the skipper roared, "you big
mountain of meat, step lively!"

Matt stepped lively.

"I am not the bosun, sir," he explained. "I'm just A.B."

"How dare you contradict me?" the Old Man growled. "I tell you, you
don't know what you are yet, barring the fact that you're an American,
and the only one, with the exception of myself, in the whole damned
Scowegian crew. Do you think you could get away with a bosun's job?"

"I could get away with your job if I had the chance, sir," Matt
declared, almost impudently.

"There she blows!" the Old Man declared. "Bless me, if you're not a
Native Son! Nobody but a Native Son wo