“Of course,” said Mr. Skinner, “I shall do nothing of the sort.”
“Then get off the ship.”
“Sir, are you crazy?”
“No, I am not; I'm just disgusted with you. Fifteen dollars here and now before I cast off the lines, or I'll run you off the ship. Don't tempt me, Skinner. If I ever lay violent hands on you there'll be work for a doctor.”
Mr. Skinner was speechless, but he laid fifteen dollars on the captain's desk and returned to his stateroom. His silence was ominous. Five minutes later the Quickstep backed out from the mill wharf and headed down the bay. As she plowed along, the rain commenced falling and a stiff southeast breeze warned Matt that he was in for a wet crossing. He was further convinced of this when the bar tug Ranger met him a mile inside the entrance. She steamed alongside, and, as she passed, her captain hailed Matt.
“Don't try to cross out, Peasley,” he shouted. “The bar is breaking.”
“The Quickstep doesn't mind it,” Matt answered.
“Don't try it, I tell you. I've been twenty years on Humboldt Bar and I know it, Peasley. I've never seen it so bad as it is this minute.”
“Oh, we'll cross out without any fuss,” Matt called back cheerfully, and rang for full speed ahead. They were down at the entrance, and the Quickstep had just lifted to the dead water from the first big green roller, when Mr. Skinner came up and touched Matt Peasley on the arm.
“Well, sir?” Matt demanded irritably.