“Well, Skipper,” he repeated, “so long, and a pleasant voyage!”
The captain’s eyes met his in a cold stare of absolute repudiation. Seattle Sam’s extended hand dropped slowly to his side, and the self-satisfied smirk faded from his face. The captain had taken up a position between him and the companion. Instinctively he turned towards the alleyway which led to the main deck. It was blocked by the substantial form of Mr. Michael Doyle.
Too late the ghastly truth began to dawn.
“Talking about squarin’ accounts,” said the skipper slowly, “I’ve got a little account to square. It’s been waiting a long time too. Matter o’ fifteen years or so. Take a good look at me! Ever seen me before? Just cast your mind back a bit to the time when you were ’Frisco Brown’s runner, and shipped a big husky apprentice out o’ the Golden Gate in a Yankee blood boat that the ‘Bride of Abydos’ is a day-nursery to!... I’ve got the scars of that trip about me yet, soul and body, Mister Seattle Sam, and you’re goin’ to pay for ’em, and compound interest too!”
As he spoke, three long wails from the tug’s hooter rent the air, answered by round after round of cheering from the ship.
The skipper stood back, while Seattle Sam dashed up on to the poop with a low howl of rage and terror.
The tug’s hawser trailed dripping through the water, and she was turning her nose for home with a mighty churning of her paddles. The crimp rushed to the rail, waving his arms frantically above his head, and a yell of derision greeted him from the crew lined along her bulwarks. They were all in it, then! He was alone, alone, with a man he had shanghaied, a crew he had tried to swindle, and a sea-chest full of waste paper wherewith to face the bitter days and nights off the Horn.
“Bos’n!” yelled the skipper. “Call all hands aft!”
“Lay aft all hands!” roared the bos’n, and soon a throng of interested faces looked up at the captain as he stood with his hands planted on the poop rail.
His words were few but to the point.