“Doggone it all, Cap’n!” yelled the angry man, “why in hell don’t ye let me know when ye’re goin’ to sling ’er across seas?  Here I had the table all set fur breakfast, an’ ye put ’er inter a grayback afore I could hold on to anything; and smash goes the hull mess on the floor—­plates, forks, vittles.  Holee mackerel!” he exclaimed under increasing impulse of anger, “what am I?—­a steward, or a—­or a monkey?”

Dan, clutching grimly at the wheel, turned a genial smile upon his cook.

“Sorry, old man.  Fact is, I forgot.  But never mind.  Pick up the best you can.”  He smiled again.  “Just a little bit dusty out here, eh, Arthur?”

“That’s what it is, Cap’n,” replied Arthur, mollified by Dan’s words of regret.

The steward looked at Dan admiringly.  In a way he was the skipper’s father confessor, not alone because he had a glib, advising tongue, but because he was possessed of a certain amount of raw, psychological instinct and knew his Shakespeare and could quote from Young’s “Night Thoughts.”  Arthur had something of a fishy look and a slick way with him; but he was a good cook.

“It seems funny to call such a kid ‘Cap’n,’” he said.  And then he added apologetically, “It’s ’cause I’ve sailed under so many grayheads, ye know.”

“Oh, I’ll be gray enough before long,” laughed Dan, and his momentary inattention to his duties at the wheel was promptly seized upon by the wily sea, which smacked the rudder hard and nearly spun the wheel out of his grip.  “Stop talking, will you!” roared Dan, wrestling at the spokes.  “Do you want me to put you all into the trough?”

Mulhatton, the mate, stumbled into the pilot-house and glared at the cook.

“Artie,” he cried, “you go below, or I’ll just gently heft you down!  I went in to git grub just now and ’t was all on the floor.  Go on now—­git!” And Arthur went, grumbling and sighing that a man’s stomach should govern his temper.

“Take the wheel a while, Cap’n?” said the mate; and as Dan nodded he stepped in close, braced his feet, and took the strain as Dan’s hands left the spokes.

“We’ll both be on the wheel together before long,” remarked Dan, sitting heavily on the chart locker and opening and shutting his stiffened fingers.

“Where is she and what’s ashore?” asked Mulhatton.  “You jumped us out in such a hurry this morning, I ain’t had time to ask you.”

“It’s an old lumber hooker, and she’s ashore on Jones Inlet bar; stranded just before midnight last night.  Lord knows how much there is left of her by this time.  But I took it a good salvage job to go after.  Cripes!” The Fledgling on her altered course had topped a wave forward, which wave, travelling swiftly aft, had withdrawn from the bow the support of its mighty shoulder.  Down went the bow with a great slap and up went the stern, screw racing and racking the engines, sending Mulhatton crashing to the floor.  But bruised as he was and dazed, he was on his feet with the quickness of a cat, and seizing the spokes, assisted Dan in bringing up the tug’s head to where it ought to be.