Mr. Murphy eyed his youthful superior with mild curiosity, not untempered with amusement. “Thank you for the promotion, Captain Matt,” he replied. “However, if you'll excuse my apparent impudence on the grounds that I'm about fifteen years older than you and have been longer in the Blue Star employ, I'd like to make a suggestion.”
“Fire away, Mike.”
Mr. Murphy hitched his belt, walked to the rail, spat tobacco juice from between his fingers and came back. “You're the youngest chief mate I've ever seen, and this is your first berth in that capacity,” he began. “Suppose you hang on to it and don't be so infernally generous.”
“But you have a first mate's license, haven't you?”
“Certainly. But—”
“No ifs or buts, Mike. The skipper's dead; I was first mate; consequently I take command of the ship, and by virtue of my authority I appoint you first mate. That goes. You'll do one of two things, Mike. You'll be first mate or get out of the ship.”
Michael J. Murphy grinned. “You mean that?”
“Naturally.”
“If you stick by that determination you'll find yourself on the beach in Cape Town, unless you conclude to take my recently vacated berth as second mate. And I'd hate like the devil to have you do that. There's neither sense nor profit for you in swapping jobs with me.”
“But I tell you I'm going to be skipper.”