“Well, Mike,” he announced to the second mate, “I guess I’m the skipper; following the same line of deduction, I guess you’re the chief mate, so I’ll move my dunnage into the old man’s cabin and you move into mine.  I’ll pick up a second mate in Cape Town before we leave.”

Mr. Murphy eyed his youthful superior with mild curiosity, not untempered with amusement.  “Thank you for the promotion, Captain Matt,” he replied.  “However, if you’ll excuse my apparent impudence on the grounds that I’m about fifteen years older than you and have been longer in the Blue Star employ, I’d like to make a suggestion.”

“Fire away, Mike.”

Mr. Murphy hitched his belt, walked to the rail, spat tobacco juice from between his fingers and came back.  “You’re the youngest chief mate I’ve ever seen, and this is your first berth in that capacity,” he began.  “Suppose you hang on to it and don’t be so infernally generous.”

“But you have a first mate’s license, haven’t you?”

“Certainly.  But—­”

“No ifs or buts, Mike.  The skipper’s dead; I was first mate; consequently I take command of the ship, and by virtue of my authority I appoint you first mate.  That goes.  You’ll do one of two things, Mike.  You’ll be first mate or get out of the ship.”

Michael J. Murphy grinned.  “You mean that?”

“Naturally.”

“If you stick by that determination you’ll find yourself on the beach in Cape Town, unless you conclude to take my recently vacated berth as second mate.  And I’d hate like the devil to have you do that.  There’s neither sense nor profit for you in swapping jobs with me.”

“But I tell you I’m going to be skipper.”

“I know—­until old Cappy Ricks sends down a relief captain.  If you promote me now, the relief captain may conclude to retain me as first mate and then you’d have to take my job or quit the ship; and of course I wouldn’t care to have that happen.  I’d have to quit the ship, too.  I wouldn’t care to do that.  I’ve made up my mind to sail under the Blue Star flag for the rest of my natural life and I’d hate to have to change my mind.”

“I’ve made up my mind to the same thing, Mike, and I know I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Well, then, Matt, you stick in your first mate’s berth and I’ll be satisfied with my second mate’s berth.”

“I suppose you’ll say next that the relief skipper will be happy in poor old Captain Noah’s berth, eh?” Matt interrupted.  He grinned at Mr. Murphy.

“Mike, listen to me.  There isn’t going to be any relief skipper.  You’re going back to Hoquiam, Grays Harbor, Washington, U. S. A., as chief kicker of the barkentine Retriever, and you’re going to take orders from me all the way.  In fact, you might as well begin right now.  Take your duds and move into my cabin.”

“Matt,” Mr. Murphy pleaded earnestly, “you don’t know Cappy Ricks, do you?”