“There she blows!” the Old Man declared. “Bless me, if you're not a Native Son! Nobody but a Native Son would be that fresh. I suppose this is your second voyage, you puling baby?”
Matt Peasley's dander was up instantly.
“I'm sailor enough to know my way alow or aloft in any weather, sir,” he retorted.
The captain saw his opening and struck.
“What's the ring-tail?” he demanded.
“It's a studdin'-s'l on the gaff of a fore-an'-aft, sail, sir. You haven't got one on the Retriever, sir.”
“Huh! You've been reading W. Clark Russell's sea yarns,” the skipper charged. “He was quite a pen-an'-paper sailor when it came to square-rigged ships, but he didn't have much to say about six-masted schooners. You see, they didn't build them in his day. Now then, son, name the sticks on a six-legged schooner, and be sure and name 'em right.”
“Fore, main, mizzen, spanker, jigger and driver, sir,” Matt fired back at him.
“Bully for you, my son. You're the third mate. Cappy Ricks allows me the luxury of a third mate whenever I run across a young fellow that appears to be worth a whoop in hell, so grab your duds, and go aft, and don't bring any cockroaches with you. I'll dig up a bosun among the squareheads.”
“Thank you, sir.”