"Gib, my dear boy," quavered Captain Scraggs, "you can't mean to say you've unloaded them gosh-awful codfish——"
"No, not yet—but soon, Scraggsy, old tarpot."
Captain Scraggs removed his near-Panama hat, cast it on the deck, and pranced upon it in a terrible rage.
"I won't receive your rotten freight, you scum of the docks," he raved. "You'll run me outer house an' home with that horrible stuff."
"Oh, you'll freight it for me, all right," the commodore retorted blithely. "Or I'll libel your old stern-wheel packet for you. I've paid the freight in advance an' I got the receipt."
Captain Scraggs was on the verge of tears. "But, Gib! My dear boy! This freight'll foul the Victor up for a month o' Fridays—an' I just took out a passenger license!"
"I'm sorry, Scraggsy, but business is business. You've took my money an' you got to perform."
"You lied to me. You said it was agricultural stuff an' I thought it was plows an' harrers an' sich——"
"It's fertilizer—an' if that ain't agricultural stuff I hope my teeth may drop out an' roll in the ocean. An' it ain't perishable. It perished long ago. I ain't deceived you. An' if you don't like the scent o' dead codfish on your decks, you can swab 'em down with Florida water for a month."
Captain Scraggs's mate came around the corner of the house and addressed himself to Captain Scraggs.