Part 2

The cutter commander crossed his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “However, Captain Coombs, I haven’t settled in full with you, sir. I haven’t paid for the training that made a sailor of me, a mariner with true notions of what the sea means. Also, I haven’t squared with you for saving my life one time when I disobeyed orders and went swimming in shark waters. I’m reminding you of how you jumped in, kicked away the sharks, got me aboard and used up on me the rest of your stock of kicks, racing me up and down the main deck.”

Captain Coombs rolled up his eyes, and scratched his ear, tipping the sou’wester. “I’m beginning to get a little glimmer of rickollection about you.”

“You may remember, sir, when your nursing saved me from dying of scurvy that time we were dismasted by a typhoon and worked ship with jury rig all the weeks till we made one of the Tonga group and grabbed some God-given green stuff.”

Captain Coombs brought his gaze down and winked a puckered eye with queer solemnity. “Edzackly!” he admitted. It was Yankee reserve, its laconic style extra copper-riveted by mariner stolidity.

Captain Bent went brusquely back to the business of day and date. “Sir, we’ll lay off grappling in muddy waters. We’ll tackle present concerns. In a friendly way, however--if I did put too much steam behind that punch.”

Captain Coombs snorted and tossed his hand, dismissing the subject. “Oh, hell! That’s only the style of seafaring men understanding each other. Much obleeged for your help in getting the hatch open on the cargo of gab I’m carrying. Sir, you can size me up pretty well, seeing the hooker I’m skippering. Cap’n Bent, I’ve come down awfully in the world.” It was said with a quaver in the tones.

The old man obeyed the younger captain’s gesture and slumped into a chair beside the table.

“Yes, I have sized you up, Captain Coombs. Your actions have been enough for me. Your packet has a cargo of hooch.”

The other nodded with hopeless chin sag. “Thanks! I’m saved that much gab.”

“But I want you to say _something_ about it,” commanded Bent, his eyes narrowing.

“My story won’t be believed in court. Telling it to a coast-guarder will only be like hooting into an empty scuttlebutt.”

“But not in the case of this coast-guarder, sir. Captain Coombs, I knew you before I was a coast-guarder. Your ship was always teetotally dry. You hated liquor.”

“Aye, and the older I’ve growed, the wuss I’ve hated the stuff. But tow me in. Hand me over. Land me in court. When I’m on the stand I’ll work myself into one of my dumb fits so I can’t yip a word. I’d ruther be lampblacked as a pirut than whitewashed as a damnation boob. I have come down in the world, sir, but I’ve been hanging onto some certain things in a master mariner’s pride. I can go through with being a jailbird, but I’ll be cussed if I can live up under being a standing joke along this coast for the rest of my life.”

Captain Bent slowly put in eclipse his insignia. He removed his cap and rolled up the cuffs of his coat to conceal the stripes. Sociably, mariner to mariner, with convincing sympathy in tone and expression, he invited, “Go on and spin the yarn, old-timer.”

“I get ye! I ain’t talking to a coast-guarder right now! Here’s what, then--making story cable mighty short. My bills of lading show two hundred and fifty cases of canned clams, two dozen to a case, sealed, labeled proper, cases and cans; Jeth Wallace’s regular labels and stenciling--he being known as a canner who ships regular.”

“More convincing than labels and stencils must be the reputation of Captain York Coombs as a teetotal skipper,” put in Captain Bent with vigor.

The old man bounced in the chair. He shouted in his passion of innocence. He beat his fists on his breast in his apprehension that emotion might make him voiceless without these mechanics.

“That’s what the jeemro, jass-heif-ered dunkaboos reckoned on when I was chartered for this trip. They must have got to Jeth Wallace good and proper--bribed up him and his cannery, run in their rum between days and laid low while Jeth and some hand-picked whelps put the stuff up to look as in-nercent as Miss Daisy teaching a Sunday-school class. And here I’m handling the first cargo loaded off’n Dumbo, and, by the blue-gilled sculpin, till I reached off Popham Sands I was just as innercent as Miss Daisy herself.”

He had blown from his soul the hateful chaff of confession in an unbroken exhaust of breath, racing his speech before fury could again throttle him.

Captain Bent relighted his cigar, venturing no trigging comment while the old man once more charged his lungs.

“My mate, the cook and the two hands forrards, one and all, they sure have a hound’s nose for spotting rum through wood and tin. Else they had a tip. Anyways, they got into that cargo, sneaking below one after the other in relay trips, and the first I reelized any o’ their rigging was slack they was drunker’n pipcats and they didn’t know whuther they was reeling in clotheslines or handling tackle, and so the forrard hamper was slatted away and I couldn’t handle ship in the seaway and I had to work single-handed, myself, getting killicks hooked.”

“I noticed that for a shipshape, A-1 job. It was sign of an able mariner, sir.”

“I have tried hard all my life to be A-1,” mourned Captain Coombs. “But, blast it, I didn’t find others that way when I give up the sea and settled ashore. The landsharks, the gougers and the flimflammers flocked around me like gulls around a Lumbo fish house at gutting time. They have nigh dreened me, sir. I foreclosed for money I had lent on that old hooker you’re taking in tow and I refitted her as best I could. For luck and old times’ sake I renamed her the _Harvest Home_. It’s an awful comedown, libeled now for rum-toting, taking two honest names into court.”

“That clipper name has been a pleasant memory for me,” admitted Captain Bent conservatively.

“In spite of the lickings?” inquired the old master, cocking his eye.

“Yes; they had their part in teaching me to respect orders, making me understand as master what orders mean aboard ship.” There was a hint of tenderness in the tone. Instantly he became brusque again. “I saw none of your crew on deck, sir.”

“Their minds ain’t edzackly on seafaring at the present time,” stated Captain Coombs demurely. “I didn’t want any of the poor fellers to miss footing and tumble overboard,” he went on, cooing his words. “They was pretty sleepy, anyway. But I took no chances. I fixed it so they’re sleeping all calm and sweet, like babies. I used a belaying pin.”

The two captains looked at each other, neither showing as much as the glint of a smile.

“The shipping laws these days oblige us to be very considerate in treatment of men before the mast,” observed Captain Bent dryly. “I compliment you, sir, for care in keeping your crew out of trouble. May I ask what about the woman and the children I saw on board?”

“You have spoke about the sourest plums in this infernal duff, Captain Bent. I run acrost the woman and the younkers, stowaways in the lazareet, after I had found there wasn’t clams in them tin cans.”

He folded his sou’wester and flailed it against his knee. “Not for a minit am I laying anything against _you_ for seizing me and the packet, now you’ve done it. You have only shortened up the devilish projecking I was having with myself. I didn’t grab your line because I was hoping I could projick a way out of my mess if coast-guarders could be shooed off. I always did hate to give up beat, you know that much about me! But I reelize I was plumb licked in this case even before your cutter hove in sight. The woman is Jeth Wallace’s wife. Them’s her little shavers. She managed to sneak herself and them on board. Seeing as how Jeth has gone in snucks with the devil, so she says, she allows she is saving herself and the children from the fires of Tophet. Where I’m pers’nally concerned she was brought along a pan of dam-fired hot coals, as you might say.” Captain Coombs stuck up two gnarled fingers, straddling them into a V.

“She is giving me two options. I can either turn packet and cargo over to the prohibitioners and lay down and whine for mercy with four paws in the air, else she will pass word, she threats, that I got gay and asked her to elope, children and all.”

“Nobody would take stock in such a yarn! _You_ elope with a ready-made family? Bah!” Captain Bent sliced the air with flattened palm.

“Them remarks,” said Captain Coombs, “showing as how you’ve still got a lot to learn about the way the old cats lap up gossip when it is sassered out to ’em ’long coast. Say, against her tongue--it’s a lively one--I don’t stand the show of an el’funt trying to dance a jig on the dogvane! And she is going to use the tongue plenty more. Says she will tell on Jeth and report his selling his soul to Satan and have Jeth jammed into jail.”

“Ye gods! Is the woman crazy?” gasped Bachelor Bent.

Captain Coombs stared thoughtfully into the crown of his sou’wester and was studiedly discreet in his reply. “Lots of good folks lately are acting queer about this liquor business, sir, and I’d hate to be passing any word as how they belong in the crazy coop. I’ll simply say that Marm Wallace has organized the Wimmen’s Crusaders on Lumbo and they’re all under oath, f’r instance, to doctor home-brew when it has been located--not simply dumping it, but fixing it so a man will never darst take another drink after swigging the foxbait peppered up by the ladies.”

“Gad!” It was another gasp from the bachelor. “It’s a wonder some of the husbands haven’t been killed off.”

“Waal, I’ll admit there have been several close shaves from sudden death on Lumbo since the Crusaders have got into full swing, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s on account of what has been slyed into the brew by the ladies; the boys do rig up some tumble oppydildock for theirselves.”

“I say these women have gone crazy, Captain Coombs!”

“Oh, I guess there ain’t any more craziness in ’em than is mixed into killing off folks in the cities nowadays, if I read the papers right. But we’d best not get switched too far away from the business of day and date, sir. I’ve mentioned the item about Marm Wallace only to show you she can’t well be managed. I’ll have to take my medicine, either out of one bottle or the other.”

Captain Bent reassumed his rigidity. “You understand, of course, Captain Coombs, I’ll be obliged to tow your packet to my home station, reporting contraband.”

“Aye, aye, sir! That’s your duty.”

“Even if the woman with the tongue could be eliminated, I’d tow you in just the same.”

“I say again it’s your duty. And I hope the sense of duty comes from my training of you.”

“Sense of duty was sufficiently well pounded in by you, sir.” The cutter commander pressed the button of a buzzer.

Promptly a lieutenant appeared.

“Mr. Blaise, return Captain Coombs aboard his ship.”

The officer saluted smartly, swung about and held the door open for the veteran skipper.

The latter shuffled his rubber boots backward for a few steps, bowed, then went on his way.

Each skipper, by a sly side glance, noted that the other was avoiding a direct meeting of the eyes. It was mariner method of the old school hard-shelled stuff.

Treading along behind the lieutenant, Captain Coombs whistled softly a chantey tune, his visage serene. His manner suggested that he was going from what had been an entirely satisfactory interview.

Executive Officer Todd tapped on Captain Bent’s door and entered. “May I ask orders, sir?”

“When ready, make a tow of it to Portland, Mr. Todd. When inside the cape, drop alongside the tow, make fast to her with breastlines, and take her to our dock. I’ll be on the bridge before we enter harbor.”

When he was alone, Captain Bent again arranged his cards on the table. He always found it easier to think and plan while he played solitaire.

He went leisurely to the bridge some hours later.

_Arrowsic_ was entering harbor.

Evening was merging into night. Tall lighthouses held aloft their steady beacons; revolving lanterns flashed white and red.

Looking over the end of the bridge, Captain Bent inspected. His orders had been carefully carried out. The ancient hooker had been made fast to the port beam of the cutter. In proceeding to her berth the _Arrowsic_ offered her starboard side to observation from the water-front wharves. The schooner was not wholly concealed under the protecting wing, of course, but she was not patently advertised, to say the least. The visible tangle of her tophamper seen past the cutter’s masts and funnel, put her into the class of cripples brought to port by the _Arrowsic_ in the ordinary course of salvage.

Disclosed by his binnacle lamp, Captain Coombs paced his quarter-deck alone. None of his crew was in sight. The closed hatch of the aft companionway was evidence that the mother and her brood were cooped below.

The two captains neither saluted nor passed speech.

The _Arrowsic_ was made fast at the pier head and the schooner was warped into the dock and was laid alongside the wharf.

“Mr. Todd, put our whole crew at the work of discharging cargo from that schooner,” directed Captain Bent. “Have those cases stacked neatly on the wharf. Set the master-at-arms with a detail to keep guard till relieved. Notify me when the cargo is on the wharf.”

Commands instead of union hours are observed by a coast-guard crew.

Nor was it theirs to wonder why it seemed essential that a cargo of canned clams must be piled out under cover of night. The job was dispatched and its completion was reported aft.

Captain Bent received the report after he had retired to his berth. “Thank you, Mr. Todd. Order out our two motor sailers and tow that schooner to the lower harbor for anchorage. By the way, her anchors are at Popham. Put aboard her one of our spare killicks, with cable.”

The commander spoke again before the executive was out of hearing. “Give my respects to Captain Coombs. Inform him that I’ll come aboard the _Harvest Home_ some time before noon.”

Turning to an easier position on his mattress, Captain Bent murmured the clipper name several times before he dropped off into slumber.

* * * * *

At eight bells, forenoon watch, an important gentleman arrived aboard the _Arrowsic_. His visit was the result of a telephone call. The officer of the deck escorted the visitor aft and ushered him into the presence of the commander, who was surveying breakfast viands which a mess boy was arranging on the table.

Captain Bent, as chilly as the ice lump which he dumped out of a halved cantaloupe, broke in on the visitor’s apologies for intrusion at meal hour. “I left orders to have you shown aft on your arrival, sir. You noted a stack of cases, I presume, walking past them on your way down the wharf?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hard liquor in them, canned under clam labels. Poor judgment, of course, putting whisky in tin--but it’s all poor judgment in the booze business these days. Kindly check up on the stuff and pass me a receipt.”

The gentleman purred compliments on the efficiency of the coast guard. He disclosed a badge when he pushed aside the lapel of his coat to get at his official blanks. “Merely the formalities of proper record, Captain Bent! Name of carrier and the master. Circumstances of capture and----”

“I have no official information for you, sir, on those points.”

“But such an attitude is extraordinary, Captain Bent!”

The captain took his time in consuming a bit of chilled cantaloupe.

“Sir,” persisted the official, “our department was long ago informed of your request that the service of this cutter be confined to salvage work, ice patrol and so forth. Now, we----”

“Just a moment, if you please. You are informed correctly. The _Arrowsic_ with her thirteen knots top speed, chasing booze speed boats, would be distinctly humorous. I am not a humorist. Salvage is my specialty. A vessel on reefs, or disabled, does not try to run away,” he commented dryly. Then he pressed the buzzer and the executive popped in. “Mr. Todd, relieve the master-at-arms. Deliver at once custody of salvage to this gentleman.” He turned to the official. “Salvage--simply salvage, sir. Within two minutes it will be left unguarded, unless you hurry.”

The prohibition man hurried--and Captain Bent peacefully enjoyed his breakfast.

An hour or so later the _Arrowsic_ halted abreast the anchored _Harvest Home_ and Captain Bent was conveyed aboard the schooner in his gig.

Captain Coombs was pacing the quarter-deck, conning the work of his men, who were busy with the tangle of the fore hamper. They tussled nimbly, showing the recuperative power of sleep and remorse.

The visitor swung a glance aloft; then he smiled with full understanding of sailor nature, winking at Captain Coombs.

The two walked into the lee alley and leaned against the house.

“Not troubling you with petty details, Captain Coombs, I’m merely saying that regulations have been stretched a bit and nothing now lies against you or your schooner. I’m mighty sorry that you’re losing your freight money.”

“Collected it in advance!” curtly returned the other. “Made sure of it, seeing as how I didn’t know the man who chartered me, claiming he bought up the cannery output! After this I’m taking no chances. I’ll be loading lime and bricks, taking damnation good pains to be sartain the bricks ain’t hollow. But what in time-mighty did you tell the prohibition feller? I take it you turned the stuff over to him.”

“I told him nothing which hitches you and your schooner up with the case. If anybody says anything to you on guesswork or hearsay, merely chew a toothpick and look innocent.”

“Aye! And stupid. That’ll be easy for a coaster skipper.”

“Captain Coombs, I did not tell him I had salvaged something very important--something outside a booze cargo. No hint to him about what the special salvage was. He wouldn’t understand, anyway. As for you, I needn’t waste talk on what it was.”

Captain Coombs leaned forward and plucked a strand from the frayed end of a halyard. His movement concealed his countenance. He mumbled, twisting the yarns, “Deep-water fellers best not blow long-winded speeches to cool off nice, warm porridge.”

“Where’s your next lading port, sir?” asked Captain Bent.

“Dumbo lime quarry, captain.”

“I am headed that way. I’ll tow you.”

“But it’ll be putting you out, and then----”

“I’m heading for Dumbo, I tell you, sir,” said Captain Bent. “I’m going ashore with that woman and her children and I’ll be putting matters shipshape and A-1. Canner Wallace needs a good story to account for his name on canned hooch. Also, perhaps I can do something sensible in the case of those Crusaders.”

He snapped briskly to his feet and strode forward, calling for all to hear, “Shorten cable, sir, and stand ready to take our hawser.”

“Aye, aye, sir! And thank you!” shouted Captain Coombs.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 20, 1929 issue of The Popular Magazine.]