He held up the blood-soaked gloves for Mr. Murphy to untie the strings, the while he sniffed a little afternoon breeze that had just sprung up, blowing straight for the open sea.

“When he comes to, Mr. Murphy,” he ordered calmly, “escort him to your old room.  Have one of the men stow his dunnage there also; and tell him if he shows his nose on deck until I give him permission, he shall have another taste of the same.  Mr. Consul, I should be highly honored if you would step into my cabin and hoist one to our own dear native land.”

“With pleasure,” the consul replied.  “Though I cannot, in my capacity as a citizen of the United States, endorse your—­er—­mutiny, nevertheless, as a United States consul at Cape Town I shall take pleasure in certifying to the fact that the fallen gladiator was the aggressor, that he did not present his credentials, and that you had no official knowledge of his identity.”

“I wish you would make an affidavit to that effect, under the seal of the Consulate, and mail it to me at Hoquiam, Washington, U. S. A.,” Matt pleaded, as they reached his cabin.  He reached into poor old Cap’n Noah’s little private locker.  “I’ve a suspicion, sir, I’m going to need your affidavit very badly.”

“I shall do so, Mr. Peasley.  May I inquire what you purpose doing with Captain Peterson?”

“Captain Peasley—­if you please, Mr. Consul.”  Matt looked up and grinned.  “I think,” he continued, as he inserted the corkscrew, “I shall ship that boy as second mate if he’s willing to work.  If he’s sullen, of course he’ll have to remain in his room—­and I shall not permit him to present his credentials now.”

“Captain Peasley,” the consul warned seriously.  “I’m afraid you’re in very, very Dutch.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.  However, it will be about three months before I commence to suffer, and in the meantime I’m going to be supremely happy skippering the barkentine Retriever back to Grays Harbor, if they hang me for it when I get there.  Say when!”

“When!”

“Here’s success to crime, Mr. Consul.”

“Good luck to you, you youthful prodigy; good luck and bon voyage, Mr.—­I mean Captain Peasley.”

“Thank you, Mr. Consul.  I hate to hurry you away; fact is, I’d like to have you stay aboard and have dinner with us, but if this breeze holds good I can save my owners an outward towage bill, and I’ll have to hustle.  So I’ll bid you good-bye, Mr. Consul.  Glad to have had you for the little exhibition.  Here is my name and address—­and please don’t forget that affidavit.”

When the American consul left the ship Matt Peasley was on the poop bawling orders; up on the topgallant forecastle the capable Mr. Murphy and his bully boys were walking around the windlass to the bellowing chorus of Roll A Man Down! while the boatswain, promoted by Matt Peasley to second mate, was laying aloft forward shaking out the topsails and hoisting her head-sails.  When the consul looked again, the American barkentine Retriever had turned her tail on Cape Town and was scampering down Table Bay with a bone in her teeth; heeling gently to the freshening breeze, she was rolling home in command of the boy who had joined her five months before as an able seaman.