“Well, I’ll see what he has to say, at any rate,” Matt compromised, and they went below, Matt to pack his sea chest and Mr. Murphy to shave and array himself in a manner befitting the master of a big barkentine about to present himself at the custom-house for the first time to clear his ship.

An hour later Matt Peasley found himself sitting on his sea chest on the cap of the wharf, watching the Retriever slipping down the strait under command of Captain Michael J. Murphy, while a new chief mate, shipped in Port Townsend, counted off the watches.  Presently she turned a bend and was gone; and immediately he felt like a homeless wanderer.  The thought of the doughty Murphy in that snug little cabin so long sacred to Matt Peasley brought a pang of near jealousy to the late commander of the Retriever; as he reflected on the two years of toil ahead of him before men would again address him as Captain Peasley, he wondered whether the game really would be worth the candle; for he had all of a Down-Easter’s love for a sailing ship.

He recalled to mind Mr. Murphy’s favorite story of the old sailing skipper who went into steam and who, during his very first watch on the steamship’s bridge, ordered the man at the wheel to starboard his helm, and then forgot to tell him to steady it—­the consequence being that the helmsman held hard-a-starboard and the ship commenced to describe a circle; whereupon the old sailing skipper got excited and screamed:  “Back that main yard!” Matt felt that should anything like that happen to him in steam and the news should ever leak out, he would have to go back to the Atlantic Coast rather than face the gibes of his shipmates on the Pacific.

The passenger boat from Victoria picked him up and set him down in Seattle that night, and the following morning he boarded a train for San Francisco to report to Cappy Ricks.

At luncheon in the dining car that day Matt Peasley found himself seated opposite a man who had boarded the train with him at Seattle.  As the young captain plied his knife and fork he was aware that this person’s gaze rested with something more than casual interest on his—­Matt’s—­left forearm; whereupon the latter realized that his vis-a-vis yearned to see more of a little decoration which, in the pride of his first voyage, Matt had seen fit to have tattooed on the aforesaid forearm by the negro cook.  So, since he was the best-natured young man imaginable, Matt decided presently to satiate his neighbor’s curiosity.

“It’s a lady climbing a ladder,” he announced composedly and drew back his sleeve to reveal this sample of black art.  “I have a shield and an eagle on my breast and a bleeding heart, with a dagger stuck through it, on my right forearm.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” the other answered, flushing a little.  “I couldn’t help noticing the chorus lady’s shapely calves when you speared that last pickle; so I knew you were a sailor.  I concluded you were an American sailor before I learned that you advertise the fact on your breast, and I was wondering whether you belong in the navy or the merchant marine.”