"Turnin' farmer, Gib?"
"Thinkin' about it a little," the commodore admitted. "What's your rate on this freight? It ain't perishable goods, so get down to brass tacks."
"A dollar a ton," declared the greedy Scraggs, naming a figure fully forty cents higher than he would have been willing to accept. "Five hundred dollars for the lot."
"Suits me." The commodore nonchalantly handed Scraggs five hundred dollars. "Gimme a receipt," he said.
So Captain Scraggs gave him a receipted freight bill and Mr. Gibney departed. An hour later a barge was bunted alongside the Victor and Neils Halvorsen appeared in Scraggs's cabin to inform him that the five hundred tons of freight was ready to be taken aboard.
"All right, Neils. I'll put a gang to work right off." He came out on deck, paused, tilted his nose, and sniffed. He was still sniffing when McGuffey bounced up out of the engine room.
"Holy Sailor!" he shouted. "Who uncorked that atter o' violets?"
"You dog-gone squarehead," shrieked Captain Scraggs. "You been monkeyin' around that codfish again."
"What smells?" demanded the mate, poking his nose out of his room.
"That tainted wealth I picked up at sea," shouted a voice from the dock, and turning, Scraggs and McGuffey observed Mr. Gibney standing on a stringer smiling at them.