“Now, captain,” he began, “there are a few things I want to tell you. This man Reardon is a fine, loyal fellow, but he's touchy—”
“I know all about him,” Murphy interrupted with a slight emphasis on the pronoun. Unlike Mr. Reardon he employed the third person singular and did not say “that fella,” for he had been raised in the United States of America.
“I have already given the captain his instructions,” Matt Peasley announced. “He understands the situation perfectly and will conduct himself accordingly.”
CHAPTER III
A small army of men swarmed over, under and through the huge Narcissus for the next three weeks, and the hearts of Cappy Ricks and Matt Peasley were like to burst with pride as they stood on the bridge with Captain Mike Murphy, while he ran the vessel over the measured course to test her speed, and swung her in the bay while adjusting her compass. She was as beautiful as money and paint could make her, and when Terence Reardon, in calm disregard of orders, came up on the bridge to announce his unbounded faith in the rejuvenated condensers and to predict a modest coal bill for the future, Mike Murphy so far forgot himself as to order the steward to bring up a bottle of something and begged Mr. Reardon to join him in three fingers of nepenthe to celebrate the occasion.
“T'ank you, sor, but I never dhrink—on djooty,” Mr. Reardon retorted with chill politeness, “nor,” he added, “wit' me immejiate superiors.”
A superficial analysis of this remark will convince the most sceptical that Mr. Reardon, with true Hibernian adroitness, had managed to convey an insult without seeming to convey it.
“Isn't that a pity!” the skipper replied. “We'll excuse you to attend to your duty, Mr. Reardon;” and he bowed the chief toward the companion leading to the boat deck. The latter departed, furious, with an uncomfortable feeling of having been out-generaled; and once a good Irishman and true has undergone that humiliation it is a safe bet that the Dove of Peace has lost her tail feathers.