CHAPTER XXVIII. CAPPY HAS A HEART
“Well, Matt,” said Cappy Ricks, cheerfully, as he shook hands with the late second mate of the Florence Ricks. “We don't see much of each other now that you're a mate. But don't worry, you'll be a master again, and then you'll be dropping in here a couple of times a month pestering me for a lot of things for your ship that you could probably get along without. You're looking fit, my boy.”
“I'm feeling fit, sir,” Matt replied, grinning.
“I'm glad to hear it,” was Cappy's grim reply. “Hum! Harump-h-h-h! Let me see now. You've had your course in the Mendocino dog-holes, and that's over. I hope you learned something. You've run for seven months from all the Washington and Oregon ports to Southern California, and—er—that's very nice. But you haven't been over Humboldt Bar yet, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you have something coming. Quite a bar in the winter time, Matt, quite a bar! Good many tickets been lost on that bar, Matt, so you ought to have more than a nodding acquaintance with it. You're going second mate in the Quickstep. She's carrying redwood shingles from Eureka to the Shingle Association's air-drying yards up river at Los Medanos at present, and she'll get to Los Medanos Sunday afternoon, so you'd better get there about the same time, in order to turn to discharging bright and early Monday morning. And you'll have to step lively, Matt. The Quickstep lives up to her name, and the way they put shingles into that vessel is a scandal.”
“Shingles are nice stuff to handle,” Matt ventured.
“Not redwood shingles, Matt. All right after they're dry, but when they come fresh from the saws they bleed a little, so be sure and wear gloves when you handle them. If you have a cut on your hand that redwood sap may poison you. I think you'll like the Quickstep, Matt.”
“It doesn't matter whether I do or not,” Matt replied humorously. “You always do things for me without consulting me anyhow.”