“Oh, look who’s here!” Mr. Murphy yelled to the skipper, as the bedraggled second mate was propelled forcibly up the ship’s companion-ladder to the waiting arms of the first mate.  “Welcome home, Angus, my lad.”

It was Mr. MacLean, their quondam second mate, cast back on the deckload of the Retriever by the resurgent tide of maritime misfortune.  Mr. Murphy sat down and held himself by the middle and laughed until the tears ran down his ruddy cheeks, while Matt Peasley joined heartily in the mirth.  The unfortunate Mr. MacLean also wept—­but from other causes, to wit—­grief and rage.

“I’m happy to have you with us again, Mr. MacLean,” Matt saluted the second mate.  “While your courage and loyalty might be questioned, your ability may not.  So the crimp swindled you, eh?  Told you he wanted you for another ship and then switched the papers on you, eh?”

“You should never trust a crimp, Angus,” Mr. Murphy warned him.  “And you should never do business with them unless you’re cold sober.  Let this be a lesson to you, my lad.  Never be a drinking man and you’ll never have to go to a crimp for a snug berth.  Run along to your old room, now, Angus, and shift into some dry clothes, if you expect to finish the voyage.”

“I’ll gie ye ma worrd I’ll desert in th’ discharrgin’ port!” Mr. MacLean burred furiously.  “Ye hae me noo, body an’ bones—­”

“Aye, and we’ll keep you, Angus.  Have no fear of that.  And you’ll not desert in the discharging port.  I’ll see to that,” Matt Peasley assured him.

When the last man had been assisted aboard Matt signaled for the tug he had engaged.  By the time she had hooked on and towed them over the bar three of the seamen were sober enough to assist the skipper and the mates in getting all plain sail, with the exception of the square sails, on her, and, with a spanking nor’west breeze on her quarter she rolled away into the horizon.

Despite the fact that the Retriever’s bottom was rather foul with marine growth, and the further fact that her master had to lay her head under her wing in a blow which, with an ordinary cargo, he would have bucked right into, the run to Antofagasta was made in average time.  And when Matt Peasley went ashore to report by cable to his owners he discovered that Cappy Ricks had provided him with a cargo of nitrate for Makaweli.

“What did I tell you, sir?” Mr. Murphy growled when the captain informed him of the owners’ orders.  “I tell you, sir, the dirtiest cargo Cappy Ricks can find is too good for us.  Praise be, the worst we can get at Makaweli is a sugar cargo.”