“Bad luck to me, I'll have to hit ye agin,” Mr. Reardon complained—and did it. Then he slid through the trap into the pilot-house, steadied the wheel with one hand and unlocked the pilot-house door with the other to admit the steward.
“Strike me pink!” that astounded functionary exclaimed as he gazed at the quartermaster lying beside the wheel.
“I will—if ye don't take howld av this wheel an' do less talkln',” Mr. Reardon replied evenly. “Bring her round very slowly, me lad, an' in the intherval I'll wrap up me little Baby Bunting on the floor forninst ye.”
When the quartermaster had been duly wrapped a la Mr. Schultz and dragged clear of the wheel, Mr. Reardon returned to the bridge and with brazen impudence set the handle of the marine telegraph over to full speed ahead. He hummed “Colleen Dhas Cruthin Amoe” as with a light heart he skipped down to the galley and found the look-out eating bread soaked in coffee. Mr. Reardon nodded and said “Good nicht, amigo” for his voyages had taken him to many ports and he was naturally quick at picking up foreign languages. The fellow, concluding Mr. Reardon desired a cup of coffee also, turned to the rack to get him a cup.
“How dare ye ate up the owners' groceries in this shameful manner?” Mr. Reardon demanded. “Do ye not get enough at mess that ye must be atin' between meals? Shame on you—”
One tap did the trick. “'Tis a black way to repay a kind t'ought,” Mr. Reardon observed to his victim as he bound and gagged him; “but war is war, an' a faint heart an' a weak stomach never shtole a ship back from forty German pirates!”
He closed the galley door on the unfortunate look-out and climbed up on the boat deck to get Michael J. Murphy out of prison. Cautiously he unlocked the state-room door with the key taken from Mr. Schultz, and the skipper came forth. Mr. Reardon led him under an electric light and gazed upon him wonderingly.
“Begorra, Michael, me poor lad,” he whispered, “be the look av the white face of you I'm thinkin' ye ought to be in bed instid av out raisin' ructions.”
“I'm weak; I have a fever,” Murphy replied. “Still, half that fever may be plain lunatic rage. Did you find a gun on the mate?”
“I did. Take it, Michael, I'll have nothin' to do wit' it.”