“Not Matt Peasley that used to command this old box—”
“Don't speak disrespectfully of my first command, Mike—”
“And you're only a tug captain—a dirty, thieving, piratical towboat man, holding up every honest skipper that pokes his nose into San Francisco Bay. Matt, I'm ashamed of you. How are you anyhow?”
“Fine, Mike. Want a tow?”
“I don't need one; I'll have a bit of breeze before long. I'm independent of you!”
The tug crept in closer. “Don't be foolish, Mike; better let me slip you a line.”
“How much will it cost, Matt? None of your highway robbery now. Be easy on the Retriever for old times' sake.”
“A thousand dollars,” Matt Peasley answered pleasantly, and was rewarded with a volley of oaths from Mike Murphy and his crew.
“You're a thief!” yelled Murphy.
“And you're a fool, Mike. You're not more than two miles off the breakers, you're in a calm that may last two days, and when the tide is at flood you'll set in on the beach as sure as death and taxes—and then I'll have a salvage job that will cost your owners not one thousand but ten.”