Cappy Ricks Part 8

"I'm going to thrash the big fellow, Mr. Murphy. Stand by to see fair play and keep the crew off him. I observe you have equipped yourself with a belaying-pin. Thank you, Mr. Murphy. You antic.i.p.ate the situation."

He turned to All Hands And Feet, who was still crowding him as they circled the deck. "Stop where you are, my friend; otherwise, Mr. Murphy will crack you on the head with the belaying-pin."

All Hands And Feet grinned patronizingly and paused.

"Vell?" he queried.

"On my s.h.i.+p," Matt continued, "all fights are pulled off under my rules.

Kicking, choking, biting, gouging and deadly weapons are prohibited.

If you get me down you can use your fists on me, but anything else will necessitate the interference of the referee with his trusty belaying-pin."

"Vell?" All Hands And Feet queried again. He was very eager for the fray.

"We have procured a set of two-ounce gloves in antic.i.p.ation of this physical culture exhibition," Matt replied. "Unfortunately, however, I fear your hands will not fit them. Would you care to try them on?"

"Cut it oud! Cut it oud!" the enemy rumbled contemptuously, and again commenced his advance.

"One minute, then, my friend, until I put on--"

"Fight mit your bare hands like a man!" the big Swede bellowed scathingly.

"You forget. I told you all fights on my s.h.i.+p are pulled off under my rules. I always fight with two-ounce gloves."

"All righd. Suit yourself." All Hands And Feet felt he could afford to give the enemy a trifle the better of the argument without the slightest prejudice to his own chances for success.

Accordingly, Mr. Murphy skillfully bandaged Matt Peasley's hands, drew on the gloves and gently shoved his young champion toward the center of the deck. "Let 'er go!" he announced.

"Come Swede! Present your credentials!" Matt taunted. His long left flashed out and cuffed All Hands And Feet on the nose.

It was a mere love-tap! All Hands And Feet grinned pityingly, and with his left arm guarding his face, rushed.

"Lower deck!" Mr. Murphy warned, and laughed as Matt planted left and right in the midriff and danced away from the Swede's swinging right.

All Hands And Feet grunted--a most unwarriorlike grunt--and dropped both hands--whereupon a fog suddenly descended upon his vision. Faintly he made out a blur that was Matt Peasley; bellowing wrathfully he rushed.

Matt gave ground and the Swede's vision cleared and he paused to consider the situation.

"No rest for the wicked," Mr. Murphy declared. "At him, boy, at him!"

All Hands And Feet realized he faced a desperate situation, and as Matt stepped in he ducked and leaped upon his antagonist.

"By yiminy," he yelled. "I got you now!" and his great hands closed around Matt Peasley's neck.

"Lower deck!" Mr. Murphy yelled shrilly, and a volley of short arm blows commenced to rattle on the big Swede's stomach. For at least seven seconds Matt worked like a pneumatic riveter; then--

"Swing your partner for the grand right and left," Mr. Murphy counseled, and Matt closed with All Hands And Feet, and managed to shake the badly winded champion off.

"All off," Mr. Murphy declared to the American consul and dropped his marline-spike, as Matt Peasley ripped left and right, right and left into Ole Peterson's dish face. "Watch the skipper--our skipper, I mean.

Regular young human pile-driver." He raised his voice and called to Matt Peasley. "He's rocking on his legs now, sir; but keep away from those arms. He's dangerous and you're givin' him fifty pounds the best of it in the weights. Try the short ribs with your left and feel for his chin with the right, sir. Very nicely done, sir! Now--once more!"

Mr. Murphy nodded politely to the American consul.

"Excuse me," he said. "The bigger they are the harder they fall, and the Retriever's deck ain't no nice place to b.u.mp a man's head. I'll just skip round in back and catch him in my arms."

Which being done, Mr. Murphy laid All Hands And Feet gently on deck, walked to the scuttle b.u.t.t, procured a dipperful of water and threw it into the gory, battered face. Matt Peasley had simply walked round him and, with the advantage of a superior reach, had systematically cut Captain Ole Peterson to strings and ribbons.

He held up the blood-soaked gloves for Mr. Murphy to untie the strings, the while he sniffed a little afternoon breeze that had just sprung up, blowing straight for the open sea.

"When he comes to, Mr. Murphy," he ordered calmly, "escort him to your old room. Have one of the men stow his dunnage there also; and tell him if he shows his nose on deck until I give him permission, he shall have another taste of the same. Mr. Consul, I should be highly honored if you would step into my cabin and hoist one to our own dear native land."

"With pleasure," the consul replied. "Though I cannot, in my capacity as a citizen of the United States, endorse your--er--mutiny, nevertheless, as a United States consul at Cape Town I shall take pleasure in certifying to the fact that the fallen gladiator was the aggressor, that he did not present his credentials, and that you had no official knowledge of his ident.i.ty."

"I wish you would make an affidavit to that effect, under the seal of the Consulate, and mail it to me at Hoquiam, Was.h.i.+ngton, U. S. A.,"

Matt pleaded, as they reached his cabin. He reached into poor old Cap'n Noah's little private locker. "I've a suspicion, sir, I'm going to need your affidavit very badly."

"I shall do so, Mr. Peasley. May I inquire what you purpose doing with Captain Peterson?"

"Captain Peasley--if you please, Mr. Consul." Matt looked up and grinned. "I think," he continued, as he inserted the corkscrew, "I shall s.h.i.+p that boy as second mate if he's willing to work. If he's sullen, of course he'll have to remain in his room--and I shall not permit him to present his credentials now."

"Captain Peasley," the consul warned seriously. "I'm afraid you're in very, very Dutch."

"I wouldn't be surprised. However, it will be about three months before I commence to suffer, and in the meantime I'm going to be supremely happy skippering the barkentine Retriever back to Grays Harbor, if they hang me for it when I get there. Say when!"

"When!"

"Here's success to crime, Mr. Consul."

"Good luck to you, you youthful prodigy; good luck and bon voyage, Mr.--I mean Captain Peasley."

"Thank you, Mr. Consul. I hate to hurry you away; fact is, I'd like to have you stay aboard and have dinner with us, but if this breeze holds good I can save my owners an outward towage bill, and I'll have to hustle. So I'll bid you good-bye, Mr. Consul. Glad to have had you for the little exhibition. Here is my name and address--and please don't forget that affidavit."

When the American consul left the s.h.i.+p Matt Peasley was on the p.o.o.p bawling orders; up on the topgallant forecastle the capable Mr. Murphy and his bully boys were walking around the windla.s.s to the bellowing chorus of Roll A Man Down! while the boatswain, promoted by Matt Peasley to second mate, was laying aloft forward shaking out the topsails and hoisting her head-sails. When the consul looked again, the American barkentine Retriever had turned her tail on Cape Town and was scampering down Table Bay with a bone in her teeth; heeling gently to the freshening breeze, she was rolling home in command of the boy who had joined her five months before as an able seaman.

Matt Peasley rounded the Cape of Good Hope nicely, but he had added materially to his stock of seamans.h.i.+p before he won through the tide-rips off Point Aghulas and squared away across the Indian Ocean.

Coming up along the coast of Australia he had the sou'east trades and he crowded her until Mr. Murphy forgot the traditions of the sea, forgot that Matt Peasley was the skipper and hence not to be questioned, and remembered that the madman was only a boy.

"Captain Matt," he pleaded, "take some clothes off the old girl, for the love of life! She's making steamer time now, and if the breeze freshens you'll lift the sticks out of her."

"Lift nothing, Mike. I know her. Cap'n Noah told me all about her. You can drive the Retriever until she develops a certain little squeak up forward--and then it's time to shorten sail. She isn't squeaking yet, Mike. Don't worry. She'll let us know," and his beaming glance wandered aloft to the straining cordage and bellying canvas. "Into it, sweetheart," he crooned, "into it, girl, and we'll show this Cappy Ricks what we know about sailing a s.h.i.+p that can sail! Meager maritime experience, eh? I'll show him!"

Oh, Sally Brown, I love your daughter, I love your daughter, indeed I do,

he caroled, and buck-and-winged his way back to the p.o.o.p, for he was only a boy, life was good, he was fighting a fight and as Mr. Murphy remarked a minute later when Matt ordered him to bend the fore-staysail on her; "What the h.e.l.l!"

Day and night Matt Peasley drove her into it. He stood far off sh.o.r.e until he ran out of the sou'east trades, fiddled around two days in light airs and then picked up the nor'east trades; drove her well into the north, hauled round and came romping up to Grays Harbor bar seventy-nine days from Cape Town. A bar tug, ranging down the coast, hooked on to him and snaked him in.

CHAPTER XI. MR. SKINNER RECEIVES A TELEGRAM