The troublesome microbes, of which Captain Pott had so unmelodiously sung, had been driven out into the open, and were now doing a war-dance to a jazz tune. Into the domestic life of the Captain there wormed the most subtle microbe of all. Just what to do with it, or how to meet it, he did not know. But it continued to bob up at every meal time with a clamorous demand for attention.
One Monday evening the two men sat in the minister’s study, the clergyman wrapped in silence, and the Captain in a cloud of tobacco smoke. The seaman was the first to break through his cloud.
“Mack, I’m awful sorry to disturb your meditations, but if they ain’t a heap sight more entertaining than mine, I cal’late you won’t mind to give ’em up for a spell.”
“It wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice, 115 Cap’n,” acknowledged Mr. McGowan, laughing. “What is troubling you?”
“Well, it’s this,”––the Captain blew a cloud of smoke,––“this here’s slow navigating on land without a woman’s hand on the wheel. We need some one to set things to rights round here once in a while.”
Mr. McGowan had been lounging lazily before the open fire, but now rose and stretched himself.
“The idea is all right, but how can we put it into effect?”
“I ain’t just exactly sure.”
“You must have something to propose, else you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“There ain’t going to be no proposing, leastwise not by me.”