Matt Peasley felt that he was going to like Michael J. Murphy. The latter was Irish, but he had left Ireland at a very tender age and was, to all intents and purposes, a breezy American citizen, and while he wore a slight cauliflower in one ear, his broad, kindly humorous face and alert, bustling manner was assurance that he would be an easy man to get along with. When the Old Man introduced him to Matt, he extended a horny right hand that closed on Matt's like the jaws of a dredger, the while he ran an equally horny left hand up and down the chief mate's arm.
“I'm sure we'll get along famously together, Mr. Murphy,” Matt suggested.
Again Mr. Murphy ran his hand over that great arm.
“You know it!” he declared with conviction.
Captain Noah laughed aloud, and as Matt scampered forward over the deckload, herding his savages before him, to receive the tug's breast line and make it fast on the bitts the skipper turned to Mr. Murphy.
“There's a lad for you,” he declared.
“He has manners and muscle, and those are two things that seldom go together,” Mr. Murphy rejoined. “He's Down-Easter, I see. Did Cappy Ricks send him to you, sir?”
“No—not that he wouldn't, however, if he'd ever met the boy. The crimp brought him aboard with the sweepings and scrapings of San Francisco.”
“I hope he wasn't drunk—like the rest,” Mr. Murphy answered anxiously. “'Twould be a sin to desecrate that lovely body with whiskey.”
“He was bung up and bilge free—and that's why he's chief kicker now. The hawser's fast for'd, Mr. Murphy. Cast off your stern line.”