led to more practical affairs by the bored voice of Mr.
Gibney.

"The owners o' them artichokes expect to get half a dollar apiece
for 'em in New York, Scraggsy. Cut it out, old timer, or you'll
have a claim for a freight shortage chalked up agin you."

"Nothin' matters any more," Scraggs replied in a choked voice,
and immediately sat down on the half-emptied crate of artichokes
and commenced to weep bitterly--half because of rage and half
because he regarded himself a pauper. Already he had a vision of
himself scouring the waterfront in search of a job.

"No use boo-hooin' over spilt milk, Scraggsy." Always
philosophical, the author of the owner's woe sought to carry the
disaster off lightly. "Don't add your salt tears to a saltier sea
until you're certain you're a total loss an' no insurance. I got
you into this and I suppose it's up to me to get you off, so I
guess I'll commence operations." Suiting the action to the word,
Mr. Gibney grasped the whistle cord and a strange, sad, sneezing,
wheezy moan resembling the expiring protest of a lusty pig and
gradually increasing into a long-drawn but respectable whistle
rewarded his efforts. For once, he could afford to be prodigal
with the steam, and while it lasted there could be no mistaking
the fact that here was a steamer in dire distress.

The weird call for help brought Scraggs around to a fuller
realization of the enormity of the disaster which had overtaken
him. 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 apar