“What are you doing way up the river?” the captain demanded.
“Oh, that's a little liberty I took,” the mate declared. “You're new to this coast; and, of course, when they ordered us to Grays Harbor I knew we weren't going to be able to go on dry dock, because there isn't any dry dock here. So, while you were in Seattle, I had a gasoline tug tow us up-river. We've been lying in fresh water four days, sir, and that'll kill most of the worms on her bottom.”
“Hereafter,” said Matt Peasley, “you get ten dollars a month above the scale. Thank you.”
Mr. Murphy acknowledged his appreciation.
“Any orders, sir?” he continued.
Matt Peasley showed him Cappy Ricks' telegram and Mr. Murphy nodded his approval. He had been in port nearly a week and the whine of the sawmills and the reek of river water had begun to get on his nerves. He was ready for the dark blue again.
“There's something wrong about our cargo, I think,” Matt remarked presently.
“Why, sir?”
“Why, down at the telegraph office this morning I met the master of the schooner, Carrier Dove, and when I told him my orders he snickered.”
“Huh! Well, he ought to know what he snickered about, sir. The Carrier Dove just finished loading at Weatherby's mill,” Mr. Murphy replied. “She's a Blue Star craft and bound for Antofagasta also. Her skipper's Salvation Pete Hansen, and it would be just like that squarehead to dodge a deckload of piling and leave it for us.”