"All I would like to know," Captain Douglas returned unhappily, "is why in Old Nick he had to nose out that stowaway in Orion right at blasting time? Why didn't he just keep that big turnip of his where it belonged!"
Jackson shrugged helplessly. The Lucifer's youngish, new skipper just didn't know Tug Skelly yet, that was the truth. It was clearly no part of a bo'sun's duties to hunt down stowaways; but then Tug had never been content to perform only his duties. The plain fact was that the stowaway, a pink-skinned Orionian, had sneaked aboard right after loading was finished. He was apparently seen by no one except the usually sleepy-eyed Tug; but that alone proved more than enough to spell the poor devil's doom.
"If it hadn't been for the Orion port authorities, though," Mate Jackson essayed weakly, "we'd have blasted on schedule. I know Tug didn't intend to stir them up, sir."
"No!" Captain Douglas jeered miserably. "I suppose not. But that infernal racket he raised chasing the stowaway was enough to bring the whole city aboard!"
Jackson nodded sadly. The Orionian port officials, summoned by Tug's wild bellowings, had swarmed on the ship en masse, like a brood of pink and imperturbable owls. They helped Tug snag the first stowaway; and then, over Douglas' frantic protests, they very slowly and assiduously fine-combed the Lucifer the rest of that night for others. They didn't find any more stowaways, but by the time the Lucifer got clearance an entire day had elapsed, leaving Captain Douglas in a near catatonic state. The guilty Skelly meanwhile had mysteriously disappeared underdeck—where, for all Jackson knew, he still was.
First Mate Jackson stirred uneasily. A suspicion suddenly shot through his mind regarding Tug's possible motive in acting the way he did. But the little first carefully refrained from voicing his thought. If it were true, it would definitely not help the big bo'sun's case with Captain Douglas!
"Like I said, sir," Pete Jackson contented himself by sighing, "Tug's mostly a first-rate bo'sun, though sometimes he does get sort of queer ideas. However—" Jackson added hastily, "you can depend on all the boys now. I mean, Captain, Sparks told us about that message that came from the owners a while back; you can bank on it we'll all do everything possible to help you make up the time."
"Thank you, Mr. Jackson," Douglas said gratefully. "I appreciate that."
Captain Douglas spoke with some composure, but, after Jackson saluted smartly and left the cabin, the young skipper's papier mache dignity melted rapidly and he slumped down into his swivel. The first officer's promise was merely a gesture, as both men knew. The Lucifer was at top speed, doing better than ten and a half kilos, but the computator showed that even that would fetch New York nearly twenty hours late. Christopher Douglas' usually trim blond mustache drooped woe-begonely, but he was too miserable to straighten it.
Instead, he parted the braids of his breveted uniform and drew a crumpled slip of paper from his breast pocket. The radiogram Jackson had referred to was from A. J. Braithewaite himself, president of Starways. It had come only a few hours before; and, re-reading it, Douglas could still hardly believe his own ill luck. Belated rocketings were always held against Starways skippers; but the Lucifer's tardy arrival threatened to be starkly tragic.