“Vat you ban tankin’ of?” he roared furiously.  “You damned landsman!  Don’t you know enough to discharge dot cargo over der lee rail?”

Having disposed of a hearty breakfast, Matt raised his green face and stared sheepishly at the Finn.  “You didn’t get sprayed, did you, sir?” he queried breathlessly.

“No, but who der devil ever heard of a seaman gettin’ sick to windward—?”

“I know it looks awful, sir,” quavered Matt.  “I thought something like this might happen, and in order to be prepared for eventualities I hung a fire bucket over the edge of the weather-bridge railing and set another there by the binnacle.  The man at the wheel got me started, sir.  He asked me if I liked fat pork.  Can’t you see that if I had made a quick run for the lee rail while the vessel was pitching to leeward the chances are I’d continue right on overboard?  As soon as I get my bearings again I’ll empty the bucket, sir.”

“Der fire buckets ban’t for dot purpose.”

“All right, sir.  I’ll buy you a new fire bucket when we get to Eureka,” Matt answered contritely.

Kjellin stayed on the bridge a few minutes, growling and glaring, but Matt was too ill and dispirited to pay any attention to him, so finally he went below.

The Quickstep bucked the gale all the way to Humboldt Bar, and tied up at the first mill dock at half past one o’clock on Friday.  It was two o’clock before the passengers and their baggage had been sent ashore, but the minute the last trunk went over the rail the loading began.

“We’ll work overtime again to-night,” the first mate told Matt at luncheon.  “The old man will drive us hard to-morrow, and we’ll have more overtime Saturday night so we can get to sea early Sunday morning.”

“I don’t care,” Matt replied.  “I get seventy-five cents an hour for my overtime, and I’m big enough to stand a lot of that.  But, believe me, I’ll jump lively.  The old man’s out of sorts on account of the delay due to that head wind.”

At three o’clock the captain walked aft, where Matt Peasley was superintending the stowing in the after hold.

“Is dot all you’ve got to do,” he sneered—­“settin’ roundt mit your hands in your poggeds?”

Matt glared at him.  True, his hands were in his pockets at that moment, but he was not setting round.  He was watching a slingload of shingles hovering high over the hatch, and the instant it was lowered he intended to leap upon it, unship the cargo hook, hang the spare cargo net on it and whistle to the winchman to hoist away for another slingload.  He controlled his temper and said: 

“I’m doing the best I can, sir.  That winchman doesn’t have to wait on us a second, sir.  We handle them as fast as they swing them in from the mill dock.”

“Yump in an’ do somedings yourself,” Kjellin growled.  “Don’t stand roundt like a young leddy.”

“D’ye mean you want I should mule shingles round in this hold like a longshoreman?”