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Updated: May 7, 2025
McGuffey's heart was with the Maggie's internal economy, however, and on Monday morning he was up betimes, leaving Mr. Gibney to snore blissfully until eight o'clock. About nine o'clock, as Mr.
"Hello," Scab Johnny saluted him at his entrance. "Quit the Maggie?" Mr. Gibney nodded. "Want a trip to the dark blue?" "Lead me to it," mumbled Mr. Gibney. "It'll cost you twenty dollars, Gib. Chief mate on the Rose of Sharon, bound for the Galapagos Islands sealing." "I'll take it, Johnny." Mr.
"Gib," he moaned, "I'm a ruined man. How're we ever to get the old sweetheart off whole? Answer me that, Gib. Answer me, I say. How're we to get my Maggie off the beach?" Mr. Gibney shook himself loose from that frantic grip and continued his pull on the whistle until the Maggie, taking a false note, quavered, moaned, spat steam a minute, and subsided with what might be termed a nautical sob.
Gibney smiled an ecstatic smile as he took the wheel and guided the schooner through the channel. He rounded her up in twelve fathoms, and within five minutes every stitch of canvas was clewed down hard and fast. The sun was setting as they dropped anchor, and Mr.
All the time the shells from the Maggie II were bursting around them every second or two, and it seemed as if they must be killed before they could make their escape. "Beat it, Scraggsy," yelled Mr. Gibney. He stood and picked up a war club. "Arm yourself, Scraggsy. Take a spear. We may have a little fighting to do on the beach," he yelled.
Gibney changed his course and headed stealthily in the direction of the whistling tugs. He came up behind them presently approaching so close under cover of the fog that he could hear Dan Hicks and Jack Flaherty, both under a dead-slow bell, felicitating each other through their megaphones. "Where d'ye suppose that dirty scoundrel's gone?" Hicks was demanding.
With alacrity, therefore, Mr. Gibney had accepted Scraggs's offer of seventy-five dollars a month "and found" to skipper the Maggie on her coastwise run.
Mr. Gibney attempted to hoot, but made a poor job of it. "Why, wherever do you get this wild tale, Scraggsy, old spell-binder? You're sure jingled or you wouldn't talk so vagrant." "You can't git away with it like that, Gib. I trailed you. Gib, for two mortal years I follered you, after you dropped us at Suva, an' I was just a thirstin' for your blood.
Sounds like the surf, Gib." "Ain't you been on this run long enough to know that the surf don't sound like nothin' else in life but breakers?" Gibney retorted wrathfully. "I ain't certain, Gib." Instantly Gibney signalled McGuffey for half speed ahead. "Breakers on the starboard bow," yelled Captain Scraggs. "Port bow," The Squarehead corrected him. "Oh, my great patience!" Mr. Gibney groaned.
Sure enough there lay the Maggie, rubbing her blistered sides against the bulkhead. Captain Scraggs was nowhere in sight, but Mr. Gibney was at the winch, swinging ashore the crates of vegetables which The Squarehead and three longshoremen loaded into the cargo net. "We're outnumbered," Jack Flaherty whispered. "Let's wait until she's unloaded an' Gibney an' Scraggs are aboard alone."
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