Oh, Sally Brown, I love your daughter,
I love your daughter, indeed I do,
he caroled, and buck-and-winged his way back to the poop, for he was only a boy, life was good, he was fighting a fight and as Mr. Murphy remarked a minute later when Matt ordered him to bend the fore-staysail on her; “What the hell!”
Day and night Matt Peasley drove her into it. He stood far off shore until he ran out of the sou'east trades, fiddled around two days in light airs and then picked up the nor'east trades; drove her well into the north, hauled round and came romping up to Grays Harbor bar seventy-nine days from Cape Town. A bar tug, ranging down the coast, hooked on to him and snaked him in.
CHAPTER XI. MR. SKINNER RECEIVES A TELEGRAM
Cappy Ricks was having his customary mid-afternoon nap in his big swivel chair and his feet on his desk, when Mr. Skinner came in and woke him up.
“I just couldn't help it, sir,” he announced apologetically, as Cappy opened one eye and glared at him, “I had to wake you up and tell you the news.”
“Tell it!” Cappy snapped.
“The Retriever arrived at Grays Harbor this morning, Mr. Ricks. She's broken the record for a fast passage,” and he handed Cappy Ricks a telegram.
“Bless my withered heart!” Cappy declared, and opened his other eye. “You don't tell me? Well, well, well! All Hands And Feet is making good right off the bat, isn't he?” Cappy chuckled. “Skinner, my dear boy,” he bragged, “did you ever see me start out to pick a skipper and hand myself the worst of it?”