Kjellin stayed on the bridge a few minutes, growling and glaring, but
Matt was too ill and dispirited to pay any attention to him, so
finally he went below.
The Quickstep bucked the gale all the way to Humboldt Bar, and tied up
at the first mill dock at half past one o'clock on Friday. It was two
o'clock before the passengers and their baggage had been sent ashore,
but the minute the last trunk went over the rail the loading began.
"We'll work overtime again to-night," the first mate told Matt at
luncheon. "The old man will drive us hard to-morrow, and we'll have
more overtime Saturday night so we can get to sea early Sunday
morning."
"I don't care," Matt replied. "I get seventy-five cents an hour for
my overtime, and I'm big enough to stand a lot of that. But, believe
me, I'll jump lively. The old man's out of sorts on account of the
delay due to that head wind."
At three o'clock the captain walked aft, where Matt Peasley was
superintending the stowing in the after hold.
"Is dot all you've got to do," he sneered--"settin' roundt mit your
hands in your poggeds?"
Matt glared at him. True, his hands were in his pockets at that
moment, but he was not setting round. He was watching a slingload of
shingles hovering high over the hatch, and the instant it was lowered
he intended to leap upon it, unship the cargo hook, hang the spare
cargo net on it and whistle to the winchman to hoist away for another
slingload.
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