Any young upstart can run coastwise, put in his service sailing a ship from headland to headland, and then take a course in a navigation school, where in six weeks he can cram sufficient navigation into his thick head to pass the inspectors and get a master’s ticket; but for offshore cruising Cappy Ricks demanded a real sailor and a thorough business man rolled into one.

Mother’s Darling had returned to Grays Harbor from a flying visit to Seattle, where two grizzled old ex-salts, the local inspectors, had put him through a severe examination to ascertain what he knew of Bowditch on Navigation and Nichols on Seamanship.  Naturally he did not know as much as they thought he should; but, out of sheer salt-water pride in the exploit of a stripling and in deference to a letter from Cappy Ricks requesting them to waive further probation as chief mate and issue Mr. Peasley his master’s license if they found him at all competent—­this in order that the said Peasley might take command of his barkentine, the Retriever, forthwith—­the inspectors concluded to override the rules of the Department of Commerce, and gave Matt Peasley his master’s license.

Upon his return from Seattle, Matt called at the telegraph office in Hoquiam and received his loading instructions from the owners.  His heart beat high with youthful importance and the joy of victory as he almost ran to the water front and engaged a big gasoline launch to take him aboard the Retriever and then kick her into the mill dock at Cosmopolis.  His ship was not where he had left her, however, and after an hour’s search he discovered her several miles up the Chehalis river.  Murphy was on deck, gazing wistfully at the house and wishing he had some white paint, when Matt Peasley came aboard.  Even before the latter leaped to the deck Mr. Murphy knew the glad tidings—­knew them, in fact, the very instant the boy’s shining countenance appeared above the rail.  The skipper was grinning fatuously and Mr. Murphy grinned back at him.

“Well, sir,” he greeted young Matt, “I see you’re the permanent skipper.  I congratulate you.”

“Thank you, Mike.  And I hope you will have no objection to continuing in your berth as first mate.  I realize I’m pretty young for an old sailor like you to be taking orders from—­”

“Bless your soul, sir,” Mr. Murphy protested; “of course I’ll stick with you!  Didn’t you whale the big Swede Cappy Ricks sent to Cape Town to kick you out of your just due?” He reaffirmed his loyalty with a contemptuous grunt.

“What are you doing way up the river?” the captain demanded.

“Oh, that’s a little liberty I took,” the mate declared.  “You’re new to this coast; and, of course, when they ordered us to Grays Harbor I knew we weren’t going to be able to go on dry dock, because there isn’t any dry dock here.  So, while you were in Seattle, I had a gasoline tug tow us up-river.  We’ve been lying in fresh water four days, sir, and that’ll kill most of the worms on her bottom.”