Alexander Key
The Captain Has a Cat
Short story
    A tea-gain’ tomcat tells all.

    The Ole Man kin cuss something admirable when the weather gits in his bones, an’ it is this trait what attracts me to him in the first place. I am a year an’ ten months old then, an’ some handy with language myself, what with bein’ born at sea on Spiggy John’s shrimp an’ oyster boat an’ livin’ a hard life ever since. Now it comes about that when I am only a year old Spiggy is caught rakin’ oysters from a bar where he ain’t got no business to be, an’ though I am glad to be rid of him, the upshot o’ the matter is that I am left high an’ dry on the waterfront to prowl for vittles, where there is five thousand other cats doin’ the same. This town is lousy with cats, an’ most o’ them is toms, so you kin see I am some put to it to keep my dock clear an’ my belly full.
    So it happens that I am sittin’ here on my dock one night, ponderin’ the injustice o’ things an’ lookin’ wistful-like out at the Gulf, when there heaves in sight the finest ship what I have ever clapped eyes on. Now don’t git me wrong – she is no milk-fed job what stinks o’ fresh paint an’ brass polish an’ with everything so shinin’ that you’d work till Doomsday tryin’ to locate a meal in her hold. No, she is a proper ship with rust on her water line an’ she is built the old-time way, which means that her lower deck is for cargo an’ she has big ports what open out to take on the good things a ship should carry. She comes up sudden out’n the winter mist, her lights glowin’, her bells ringin’ an’ her whistle goin’ like thunder, an’ her Ole Man is leanin’ from the wheelhouse cussin’ the weather an’ the deck crew in a way that is good to hear.
    It tells me that he is an old salt from away back, an’ that though maybe he is all barnacles on the outside, he is sound oak underneath. An’ what with him an’ me speakin’ the same kind o’ language, I know we should hit it up fine.
    When the ship shoulders in to the dock, thuddin’ an’ scrapin’ an’ fillin’ the air with all kinds o’ fine smells from her hold, I recognize her as the Marlin, Mister Cap’n Brannan owner an’ master. I have seen her often before when I am a kit on Spiggy John’s boat, though never close enough to smell, an’ now I remember tales my good maw tells me about her before she is lost over the side in a March breeze o’ wind.
    This Marlin she is a coaster, an’ once a week for forty years she’s been makin’ the coast towns from here to Mobile. Her Ole Man is maybe eighty an’ more, though you’d never know it what with him standin’ so straight an’ havin’ a voice like a nor’easter which kin be heard all over the Gulf. He has white hair that bushes thick under his cap, an’ white mustaches that drip down clean to his collar, an’ he is said to be much too cantankerous to ever git himself tied down to a woman, for which I don’t blame him.
    * * *
    I sits there a minute studyin’ him an’ smellin’ the smells comin’ from the hold, an’ kickin’ myself for never bein’ around in daylight when the Marlin usually comes in. An’ suddenly I heaves myself up an’ starts for’ard to git acquainted.
    I takes two steps an’ stops, for I remember how I been treated when I tries to git myself on other ships these past ten months. It happens that I am born on a black night in the dark o’ the moon, an’ my paw, though a big ornery bruiser off’n a freighter, is a slightly darkish member o’ the tribe. All o’ which makes me plum’ black from my nose to my tail, with nary speck o’ white on me. This is some advantageous in a way, but bad for boardin’ ships. When the deckhands sees me come they either run or throw things at me, which don’t seem right as they is mostly as black as I am.
    I sits there a spell considerin’ ways an’ means, an’ all the while I hear the Ole Man cussin’. I know it’s the weather what’s got in his bones, for the same has got into my tail where Spiggy John once hits me on the end of it an’ leaves it with a perpetual crook. This crook is my barometer, as it always plagues me to beat hell when the weather is makin’. So I recollects it will be no fun sleeping around the dock in January; furthermore the Ole Man is the kind what won’t want me nohow less’n I kin show him I’m as cantankerous as he is.
    With that I heaves myself up again, makes myself look as big an’ mean as two o’ me, an’ walks up the gangplank like I owns the place. An’ right there, with the Ole Man glarin’ down at me from the port rail, what do I find confrontin’ me on the edge of the Marlin’s cargo but a monstrous striped tom as fat as butter an’ as wicked-lookin’ as a shark!
    He is most unsociable for he sticks out his hackles an’ snarls terrible nasty: “Git the hell off’n my ship, you stinkin’ cockroach ! ”
    “Lissen,” I says, stickin’ out my own hackles an’ givin’ him nasty for nasty. “You greasy, lousy, yallow-livered son of a flea-bitten scut! I’m goin’ to take you plum’ apart an’ hang you all over this place to dry!”
    An’ with that I warps into him an’ rakes him fore an’ aft before he has time to turn. But he rares over an’ for a minute it is tooth an’ claw plus a power o’ bad language. Howsomever I am a hard case an’ have been dressin’ down bad toms daily, while he is as fat an’ as yaller as the butter he is full of. So in another second I keel-hauls him an’ stem-winds him an’ he is off down the dock so scairt he rolls more than he runs.
    We stir up such a commotion that I don’t notice till now that the deck hands is yellin’ an’ throwin’ things, so I scramble under some pairs o’ feet an’ hit the upper deck flyin’. There is men behind me an’ I take into the first door I see, which turns out to be the wheel-house.
    It is maybe a good move. The wheel-house is the Ole Man’s sanctum an’ no one follows. But I am no sooner in the door than there is a loud noise like a boiler explosion, which is only the Ole Man clearin’ the deck o’ my recent pursuers, an’ immediately afterward the Ole Man himself heaves into the place. His thumbs is in his belt, he is red in the face, an’ the tilt of his jaw which is stuck out between his drippin’ mustaches reminds me of an old tomcat, which he is in a way.
    I am installed peaceable on the binnacle now an’ give him only a casual glance while I go about lickin’ my mitts. I know him for the kind what has to be worked up to gradual, as too much rub an’ purr at first is just bilgewater to him.
    * * *
    He glares at me and then he busts out: “Ye black ornery scalawag! What the blinkin’ devil ye mean, disruptin’ my ship an’ then comin’ in here like ye own the place? Git out!”
    “The same to you, you ole buck walrus,” I says, an’ I kin see he understands the tone if not the words. “It’s my ship now by right o’ conquest, so ease off <>n your foghorn a trifle.” An’ with that I kicks a flea at him an’ sits tight.
    He slams a cigar in his mouth, rolls it between his mustaches an’ jerks it out. “If ye hadn’t chased off that scut of an engineer’s cat,” he says, “I’d not tolerate the sight o’ ye. But just the same, I can’t have no black varmint on this ship. It’s bad for the Negro hands. Git a’goin’, you! ”
    “Oh yeah?” I says, still actin’ bold but quakin’ to my mitts for fear my color is agin’ me an’ maybe he won’t take to me after all. “I got as much o’ the Ole Scratch in me as you got in you, an’ I’m a sea cat born an’ bred.” An’ I puffs myself up big an’ ornery an’ gives him a slight feel of my hooks when he makes as if to slam me off the binnacle.
    With that he lets out a haw-haw what makes the compass spin under me. I know I got him goin’ now, so I gives him a bit of purr to clinch matters an’ tell him I think he is okay. That gits him, so he reaches out a hand to rub my back; only, as the weather is makin’ up an’ I am supercharged with it so to speak, he gits a handful o’ sparks.
    “Fire an’ brimstone, are ye?” he bellows. “All right, Satan, maybe I’ll ship ye after all. Only—” an’ he leans over sudden an’ jabs a big fist under my nose. “Now mind, ye black spittin’ son o’ the devil! I’m takin’ ye on probation this trip, d’ye hear? I got plenty troubles without ye. Just one false move from ye in the next seven days, an’ I’m wringin’ ye out by the tail an’ makin’ shark bait o’ ye!” An’ before I kin give him a grateful purr, he is off to give the weather an’ the loadin’ gang a piece of his mind.
    For a second I am so happy to be a member o’ the Ole Man’s crew that I hop down an’ start clawin’ the stuffin’ out’n his bunk in the cabin behind the wheel-house, an’ I’m not mindin’ this name Satan he gives me, as I think it most proper. Then the weather starts twingin’ in my tail, an’ right off I begins to git worried. I recollects that I am on probation, an’ that if anything happens in the next seven days it will be laid to me, an’ all the nine lives I am supposed to have won’t be worth the snap of a dead tom’s fiddle strings.
    * * *
    This trip starts anything but good. We are late gittin’ loaded, an’ right at the last minute the Ole Man is pounced upon by a hard guy whom I learn is a Customs inspector, an’ though this inspector don’t say what he is after, he prowls half the night in the hold before he lets the Marlin cast off her lines. The Ole Man is plum’ put out by this time, an’ when we heads down the channel the language is pourin’ red-hot from between his mustaches.
    Then, like I knowed it would, the weather busts loose. It hits us sudden, an’ in a second the Marlin is rarin’ an’ rollin’ in a way that reminds me of Spiggy John when he has too much under the button. We are nearin’ the island pass now but with the wind an’ sea caterwaulin’ around us like Judgment Day, the Ole Man kin do nothin’ but heave both for’ard anchors out an’ keep the engine goin’ all the time so we won’t drift. All this is bad, as I learn it is goin’ to make us a day late in Mobile.
    I know for certain now my color is agin’ be – for whoever heard of a black tom bringin’ anything but bad luck? So I wisely makes myself scarce before the Ole Man starts puttin’ two an’ two together an’ decides I am the Jonah which I fear I am. It is down to the hold I starts, thinkin’ to locate some vittles on the hoof; but I takes the wrong companion an’ fetches up in the engine room instead.
    The Marlin is not heavin’ an’ rollin’ so much down here, an’ the place is quite steamy an’ warm. Snorin’ in front of his gadgets is the engineer, who looks maybe like he is an old Swede. Around near the firebox I come upon two men whisperin’ earnest to each other, one bein’ a big buck nigger who is the stoker, the other a dark little wart with a hook nose who is the oiler.
    I takes one look an’ whiff o’ this oiler, an’ though his soup-strainer is shaved off an’ he is smeary with oil, I know he is Spiggy John. I am so confounded by this turn of matters that I kin only sit an’ gape at him, for this is the last place I ever expect to see Spiggy again.
    I am slinkin’ nearer when they both looks around guilty-like as if afraid the engineer maybe is listenin’, an’ suddenly this stoker sees me. His eyes start buggin’ out an’ for a second I think his hair is goin’ to unkink.
    “Ugh!” he says, an’ grabs up his shovel.
    “Mil diablos, what?” says Spiggy.
    “Dat – dat black varmint!” says the stoker, pointing.
    “I don’t see nothin’,” says Spiggy.
    “Dat – dat cat!” says the stoker. “H-he’s crossin’ my trail an’ he’s black! Us got to kill ’¡m!”
    “Silencio!” says Spiggy, softly. “We no wake dat Swensen. Mebbe he Swensen’s new cat.”
    “De boss man’s cat is yaller,” says the stoker. “He ain’t been ’round. Dis one is black an’ he’s powerful bad luck. We can’t have no bad luck trompin’ ’bout us now – not with dem inspectors comin’ aboard.”
    “Mira!” breathes Spiggy. “I see heem! He look like a black cat dat breeng me mucha trouble once. Keety, keety, keety!”
    “How come you call ‘kitty, kitty, kitty?’ You crazy?”
    “No, no, no,” says Spiggy. “Quiet, don’t hit heem. I spik to heem nice an’ catch heem easy, see? Den you open de firebox queek an’ I push heem in! Takes fire to cure bad luck. Come, keety, nice keety! Keety, keety, keety!”
    * * *
    All this makes my hackles twitch terrible, but I am no scaredy cat. In the past Spiggy is an evil I must tolerate because he comes with the boat I am born on – but I am not toleratin’ Spiggy now. As he reaches for me sudden I let him have it with both my fore an’ after hooks, an’ he lets out such a yell as can be heard clean to Cape San Bias. The stoker roars an’ heaves his shovel at me, but I scram across Mister Swensen an’ head for other parts. I hear them all carryin’ on behind me as I take the companion stairs three at a time, Mister Swensen shoutin’ them down with: “Yah, yah, you go back to vork or I starts somethings myself!”
    It does not happen to be the same companion I come below on, so this time I land on the cargo deck. Believe me, I am some low in my spirits when I git there, an’ I don’t have much appetite for the vittles which is runnin’ loose all over the place an’ which is so easy to catch it is almost a crime. It seems that the hand of everybody is raised agin’ me an’ no matter where I poke my nose I am bound to poke it into trouble; an’ now with Spiggy John on board I know full well that if I ever live to see Mobile it will be because of an accident for which I ain’t responsible.
    Ordinarily I don’t let a night go by without makin’ the best of it, but this time I kin only try to sleep it off on a flour sack in the hold an’ hope the mornin’ dawns fair. However, when I land on deck I find things is far from fair, even though the sun is up bright an’ the wind has died some.
    The Ole Man an’ the whole deck crew is for’ard, as well as Mister Swensen an’ another man who is tall an’ white-haired an’ sour-lookin’. I learn he is Mister Jack-son, the mate, who has been on the Marlin as long as Mister Cap’n Brannan has. The Ole Man is doin’ most o’ the cussin’, while the deck crew heaves an’ sweats around the winch.
    It seems the worst has happened: the anchor is fouled with every fathom of the hawser out, an’ she can’t be budged. They try the steam winch first, but what with bein’ old an’ rusty it don’t work proper, so they have to go after it with hand spokes. With all the rollin’ in last night’s wind the anchor has buried itself a mile deep; now the tide is runnin’ in an’ the whole force of it is on that hundred fathoms o’ hawser. To git it aboard is like tryin’ to pull up the bottom o’ the ocean.
    The Ole Man is fit to be tied, his mustaches flyin’ in a gale o’ language. “Mister Jackson,” he bawls, “clap block an tackle on that blasted thing an put six men to it while the rest keep after the spokes.” An’ to the Negro hands: “Git a heave on, ye worm-eaten apes! If ye don’t git that hook out o’ the mud so I can make the bar at high water, I’m blowed if I don’t skin the lot o’ ye an’ beach ye for good!”
    The day is nippy, but with the Ole Man’s blast the sweat begins to fly. Mister Swensen goes below to git up full steam; every little while the Marlin forges ahead so the deck crew kin try to take up the hawser’s slack, an’ sometimes she walks clean around the compass tryin’ to yank the hook loose. So it is that we lose nine hours before the hook comes free.
    * * *
    Everybody is too busy to notice me before, but I am so interested now that I ups an’ strides closer. An’ it is my luck for one o’ them bucks to see me an’ git the jitters. He yells an’ points, an’ all at once they is all yellin’ bloody murder an’ throwin’ the winch spokes at me. Then something comes loose an’ the hawser starts smokin’ back into the bay again.
    I don’t wait to hear the rest of it for I am goin’ full tilt to the only safe place I know, which is straight into the wheel-house. I land in there just ahead of the Ole Man, so I back off into a corner an’ try to make myself as insignificant as I can, meanwhile tellin’ him I am so sorry my heart is nigh ready to bust – an’ all the while I’m realizin’ I’m just a big ugly scrawny ornery bad-luck tom what ain’t fit killin’.
    But the Ole Man only gives me a scorchin’ look an’ reaches for a bottle. What with bein’ eighty an’ all I guess he needs a good nip – though I must say he’s got a heap more yowl left in him than Mister Jackson, who is only seventy. He slams down the bottle, starts to say something but can’t on account of his bile chokin’ him, an’ then he happens to glance out over the port bow.
    I don’t know what he sees there beyond where Mister Jackson is gittin’ the hands after the hawser again, but it must be powerful bad. He blows sharp once through his mustaches, sendin’ them flyin’ in front of him like white storm pennants, an’ then he strides real slow to the door with his hands twitchin’ at his sides.
    Now, I am only an ornery black tom an’ not fit drownin’ maybe, but I would have to be sixty fathoms down with a stone on my tail not to know some things. Things it is my rightful heritage to know. What with my tribe livin’ around Man longer’n I kin count, we understand the creature pretty well – which is to say that I need only to take a sniff o’ one to learn if he is okay an’ how he is feelin’. Ever since I come on board I been suspicionin’ that the Ole Man is some worried about something, but is too cussed to show it. His worry is five times as strong after the Customs inspector leaves, an’ now when he looks out the wheel-house I kin feel worry clamp down on him like a ton o’ dead shrimp with all the ice gone.
    An’ feelin’ so sorry for him as I do, I forgit myself an’ go up an’ give him a rub an’ purr to let him know he has one friend in this unnatural world, an’ he reaches down an’ gives me an absent-minded pat on the back. Suddenly he snorts like a steam boiler ready to explode an’ heaves out on deck.
    I am so curious I follow, an’ when I poke my nose between his shoes an’ stare under the rail, all I kin see, smell an’ hear is trouble.
    * * *
    Bearin’ down on us is a sleek grey ship what makes the air reek o’ paint, brass polish an’ deck lotion, an’ I know her as none other than the Coast Guard cutter, Ariel. She comes about smart an’ her skipper bawls out that he is goin’ to board us.
    “Ye kin go to the devil!” the Ole Man bawls back. “The tide’s runnin’ out an’ I got only a few minutes to git over the bar. This is a bad place for two ships to lie to – if’n ye got sense ye’ll wait till I’m outside!”
    “I’m boardin’ you now!” yells the Ariel’s skipper, an’ he lowers a boat right off. For a minute the air is blue with talk, then the Ole Man snarls to the mate: “I’m givin’ ye two minutes to git that hook stowed, mister, then I’m gittin’ under way if I have to cut the hawser!”
    The crew starts sweatin’, but before the two minutes is up it is evident that the anchor is fouled again. The Ole Man yanks a fire ax out’n a locker, only to be stopped at the door by the Ariel’s skipper who is followed aboard by five o’ his crew.
    Now, I know this Ariel’s skipper from away back, because he’s been tellin’ Spiggy John an’ me to heave-to ever since we first hit deep water an’ tried a bit o’ shrimp trawlin’. He is Mister Cap’n Craney, an’ he is lean an’ thin-mouthed with little cold eyes like a dead shark, an’ he has a habit o’ tippin’ his head to one side in a manner most contemptuous when he counts the life preservers in the cabin an’ pokes at rust on the gear. I have long had a yen to drag my hooks over his shins; but bein’ as he’s a Coast Guard skipper an’ a power at sea, I manage to be diplomatic.
    Today Mister Cap’n Craney’s mouth is thinner an’ his eye more shark-like than ever, an’ I know something is brewin’. He squints at the Ole Man, an’ his voice rasps as if it never had a proper wettin’ down with the right kind o’ fluid.
    “Just take it easy, Cap’n Brannan,” he says. “We got plenty of time.”
    The Ole Man blows first one side of his mustache out at him an’ then the other. “Last year,” he bellows, “ye condemned me for carryin’ passengers. Me – what’s never lost a life or a sack o’ meal in forty years on this coast! Ye slap fines on me an’ make me—”
    “You must admit,” Mister Cap’n Craney says drily, “that your hull is a bit antiquated. “Who knows—”
    “Bah!” the Ole Man roars. “I got a better hull under me right now than ye ever trod in your life! What the thunderin’ blasted barnacle do you want on my ship?”
    “That remains to be seen,” says this Mister Craney, an’ he jiggles the compass an’ says it needs adjustin’, an’ goes out an’ squints at the boat falls an’ says they must be replaced. Finally he says, “Cap’n Brannan, you’re loaded mighty heavy this trip. I’m thinkin’ you’re down past your marks.”
    The Ole Man spits clean over the starboard rail. “Mister,” says he, “I was packin’ silk around the Horn before you was born, an’ before Mister Plimsoll ever invented his loadin’ mark. Don’t tell me anything about loadin’!”
    Mister Craney gits red an’ rasps back: “You’re half an inch lower than your load line, an’ for that you’ll be fined!” Then he snaps out to his men: “Git below, boys. You know your duty.”
    “Ye cussed two-bit piece o’ shark bait!” bellows the Ole Man. “I’m right on my marks! If’n ye can’t read ’em from your own deck, I’ll take ye apart an drape ye over the side so ye kin read ’em close! What in thunder do you want below?”
    “Never mind that,” rasps this Craney person, shakin’ his fist. “I’ve taken all the talk from you I’m goin’ to take. You’re gittin’ too old to be trusted at sea an’ I’ve long considered both you an’ this hulk you’re on as menaces to navigation. When I git through with you this time, you’re goin’ to be finished! You hear me? Finished!”
    Then he cocks his head to one side an’ says: “Now, Cap’n Brannan, I’ll trouble you for your manifest, your bills of lading an’ your invoice. I’m goin’ to check your cargo from start to finish!”
    The Ole Man takes a step forward, towerin’ over him like a huge cypress log, an’ for a second I think he is goin’ to rend this Craney from limb to limb. To look at the Ole Man then I declare you’d never know he is maybe eighty an’ more, he is so full o’ what it takes. Then he wheels sudden, grabs a fist full o’ papers from a file, an’ crams them square in Mister Cap’n Craney’s face.
    “Take ’em!” he roars. “An ye better read ’em straight, mister, or I’ll be givin’ ye an eye treatment ye’ll never forgit!”
    * * *
    So it is that the Marlin don’t cross the bar right off, a matter which is goin’ to make us awful late in Mobile on account of we can’t git out the bay until high water tonight. It is not a sweet thought, bein’ as I am in a large way responsible, but at the moment I don’t pay it no mind for I am consumed with a great curiosity about this funny cargo business.
    We all tromp below, me followin’ careful in the rear. Mister Craney he reads the cargo list from the manifest, an’ his crew start pawin’ an’ checkin’ over the boxes an’ bales o’ stuff. They don’t miss nothin’, an’ when they come to a crate what maybe looks suspicious, they bust it open with an ax an’ Mister Craney gits down an’ smells an’ dips his fingers in what’s inside.
    The Ole Man stands by, chewin’ one cigar after another. “If ye’re lookin’ for Chinamen,” he snarls finally, “I kin show ye better places to hide ’em than in crates.”
    “We are not interested in live contraband,” says Mister Cap’n Craney. “Nor do I think you need to be told what we’re after.”
    “Mister,” says the Ole Man, an’ his voice is deadly soft now. “I don’t know what ye’re after, but if ye don’t find it quick I’m goin’ to raise a stink what’s goin’ to be heard all the way from here to Washington.” He points to the busted boxes an’ bales an’ slashed grain sacks what makes the place look as if a typhoon had been born in it. “Mister, somebody’s goin’ to pay for that damage – an’ somebody’s goin’ to be kicked clean out’n the Coast Guard Service because of it!” Mister Craney don’t say nothin’ now. but he’s lookin’ worried. His men tear into it harder than ever, an’ after a long time they go into the hold below an’ start in all over again there.
    I don’t realize how time is flyin’ until the mate, Mister Jackson, comes down an’ says significantly: “Are we goin’ to lie here all night, skipper? The wind’s kickin’ up bad, an’ it ain’t long till high water.”
    “How do I know how long we’ll be here!” snarls the Ole Man. “Don’t talk to me – I got to keep my eyes on these thievin’ blackguards or they might start tearin’ loose the bottom plates thinkin’ I’ve stowed contraband in the barnacles.”
    “Hurrrump!” growls the mate, an’ catches sight o’ me. “You orta git rid o’ that fool black cat. He ain’t brung nothin’ but bad luck since he stepped aboard.”
    “I’m keepin’ him till mornin’,” says the Ole Man. “Maybe he kin jinx some other people what ain’t a cable’s length away.”
    That don’t sound so good, so I just sit tight hopin’ for the best. Only the best don’t come. What comes is very much the worst. So much the worst that Mister Jackson can only stand with his mouth hangin’ open, an’ the Ole Man looks as if he is crowned with an ax an’ is about to topple.
    * * *
    Now, what goes on at this moment' is mostly over my head, for after all I am only a poor black sea cat with not near enough lives to do me for what’s to come, an’ although I naturally know port from starboard an’ kin rattle off the points o’ the compass on my whiskers, I am some nonplussed about the laws o’ right an’ wrong. For instance I understand there is a time, though long before my day, when it is wrong to have a crate o’ whisky in the hold, though it is quite right to have a hundred crates o’ whisky anywhere now. An’ it’s queerer with Chinamen. It is right to have a Chinaman on board any time if’n he’s in plain sight an’ has a little picture of himself in his hand, but it is wrong to have a Chinaman in the hold where you can’t see him. It seems to be the same with a little tin box that one o’ Mister Cap’n Craney’s men drags out from behind some cargo dunnage.
    Mister Cap’n Craney grabs that box like a shark grabs a mullet. “Ha!” he says, openin’ it an’ tastin’ an’ spittin’ out some o’ the white stuff what’s inside. “So!” he says, an’ shakes the box under the Ole Man’s nose. “We found it! It ain’t much, but it’s enough to warrant confiscatin’ your ship an’ clappin’ you in irons! Come, now, the quicker you talk the better! We know you git it from the Tampico boats at Pensacola, an’ we know you are the sole agent for it on this coast. But what we want to know is what firm buys it from you an’ distributes it inland. You hear me? You better start talkin’!”
    The Ole Man comes slowly to himself. “Mister,” he says, voice shakin’. “What’s in that box?”
    “You should ask!” the Craney person snaps back sarcastic. “It’s dope, you old fool! You’re a dope peddlerl”
    It is a good thing then that Mister Jackson hangs on to the Ole Man’s arm, for it would have been tough for Mister Craney.
    “Ye blasted white-livered blackguard!” bellows the Ole Man. “Are ye daft, dumb an’ blind? If I was runnin’ dope, d’ye think I’d risk my ship an’ the best freight business on this coast to sneak in a little pinch like that? Bah! Why, confound ye, I’d not be bothered with less than a barrel of it!”
    “You probably hid this for your own use,” says Mister Craney. “We don’t doubt that you have a barrel of it somewhere on board, an’ we’ll find it if we have to tear the ship apart! But even if you had time to heave it overboard before we came, this box alone is evidence enough to convict you!”
    We all glare at each other an’ Mister Jackson suddenly snatches me up like he is goin’ to wring my neck, but the Ole Man yanks me from him, sets me down easy with a pat, an’ says chokingly: “Meb-be ye are the cause o’ this luck, Satan, an’ mebbe ye are not. But the thing was bound to happen sooner or later, an’ I’m not blamin’ ye.”
    Which, I think, is very magnanimous of the Ole Man, though it don’t help my sadness none for it looks as if me an’ the Ole Man ain’t goin’ to be together much longer. I am ponderin’ on this when the Marlin gives a roll an’ a jerk like something has caught her an’ is tryin’ to yank her eyes out, an’ at the same time I have a binge in the tail what tells me the weather is still with us an’ that it ain’t improvin’.
    Mister Cap’n Craney, the Ole Man an’ the mate looks up startled when the Marlin jerks, an’ all of a sudden they are headin’ double quick up the companion, me right behind ’em.
    * * *
    Now, when we are way down in the hold we don’t hardly notice how rough it is gettin’ outside, but when we hit the main deck it is tiltin’ every which way an’ the wind is screamin’ so hard through the funnel guys it makes my hair stand on end. Close in the dark I kin see the Ariel swingin’ around crazy, an’ with everybody on both of us yellin’ their heads off, I recognize things are not what they should be. I hardly draw two breaths when the Ariel swings broadside to us, hittin’ us with a bang an’ a crashin’ o’ wood, this last bein’ the Ariel’s boat which is ground to kindlin’ between us.
    From what I kin make out between the yellin’ an’ the cuss words, it seems that the Ariel’s anchors has hit slick bottom an’ started draggin’, an’ when her first officer calls for steam, her propeller fouls the Marlin’s hawser. Now there is a pretty how-to-do. The Marlin is plum’ helpless, an’ with her bangin’ against us at every roll she is threatenin’ to tear us both to pieces.
    The Ole Man bellows for full speed astern, grabs up an ax, an’ with one swing cuts our hawser loose. An’ as the two ships drift free, he gives Mister Craney such a rakin’ down for his lack o’ seamanship as I never heard before, an’ says he is not fittin’ to be in the Coast Guard.
    “I told ye not to board me here,” he finishes. “Ye better git back to your own deck an’ take charge before it’s too late. Last night’s wind was only a taste; ye got a lee shore an’ a full-grown storm comin’ on tonight, mister, an’ ye’re goin’ to be in a bad way with that hawser foulin’ your screw!”
    Cap’n Craney acts like he is bereft o’ reason for a minute, then he snarls for someone to lower a boat for him. They are startin’ to lower away when the wind opens up for all it is worth, throwin’ the boat back in our faces an’ pilin’ a mountain o’ green water over the foredeck.
    When Mister Cap’n Craney sees he can’t leave, he yells that he is takin’ over the Marlin, an’ starts givin’ orders for the ship to ease down to the Ariel’s bow so someone kin heave a tow line an’ keep the Ariel from draggin’ – an’ it is evident she is still draggin’. Her anchors would maybe hold if’n she could let ’em out on a long rode, but the wind is in a new quarter an’ she’s driftin’ dangerous close to shoal water an’ the island guardin’ the pass.
    The Ole Man gives Craney a push what sends him sprawlin’. “Ye ain’t givin’ orders on my deck! ” he bellows. “Think I’m gein’ to let ye swing us into your bow lines an’ git my own screw fouled? Ye dumb foc’sle swab, that would wreck us both!”
    But in spite o’ Mister Craney, who is just a left-over from the tough days o’ prohibition when Uncle Sam was hard put to it for skippers, the Ole Man has a deep reverence for the Coast Guard an’ he is not goin’ to see one o’ her ships lost. He works fast, payin’ no attention to Mister Craney’s threats, an’ though what he does is mighty dangerous to his own ship, it ain’t twenty minutes before he has warped the Marlin under the Ariel’s quarter, tossed ’em a light line which they bend to a tow line, an’ then steamed ahead. He breaks out a new hawser an’ anchor now, an’ with both it an’ the stern anchor set for’ard on good bottom, he hauls in the tow line an’ makes it fast to the after bitts. So there we are, with the Marlin’s engine goin’ full speed ahead to keep the two of us from driftin’.
    “All right,” he bellows at Mister Cap’n Craney. “Maybe my ship is a menace to navigation, but if she ain’t holdin’ both of us steady by mornin’, I’ll sell her for scrap!”
    “Oh no you won’t,” snarls Mister Craney, not actin’ like a proper Coast Guard skipper, who would have been most mannerly. “You mean Uncle Sam will sell her for scrap! You forget you’re a dope runner!” An’ though his men ain’t liking it a bit, the ornery scut orders ’em to tear the ship apart an’ find the rest o’ that dope if it takes all night!”
    All this, plus the fact that it has turned cold as blazes, makes me feel terrible bad, but I can’t think o’ nothin’ to do about it except to go off to my warm flour sack in the hold an’ hope I kin dream of an idea. An’ before I know it I am dead to the world, chasin’ pretty white kitties in a tom heaven.
    * * *
    Just what time it is when I am most suddenly an’ rudely waked up I don’t know, but I am conscious that I am not alone an’ that I am anywhere but in a tom heaven. Then I make out two men movin’ near me, but I can’t see well on account of they are flashin’ a light in front of them. It is not Mister Craney for I kin hear his men knockin’ around over my head, so I takes a good sniff an’ smells Spiggy John’s smell.
    “Mebbe we ought to burn hit,” says the stoker’s voice. “Dat Coast Guard skipper might find hit.”
    “No, no, no,” Spiggy says quick. “Dat sack cost me heapa money. We take eet in a bunker an’ shovel coal on eet.”
    “You better locate hit befo’ dem devils come,” says the stoker.
    “Mira! Here eet is!” says Spiggy, an’ flashes the light across the sack o’ flour on which I am reposed.
    Honest, it looks like my end has come, for I am caught there in a corner of the bulkhead, an’ the light is blindin’ my eyes so I don’t know which way to turn. The stoker yelps an’ Spiggy cusses, an’ for a spell we have it red-hot together.
    The stoker slams at me with his stick an’ Spiggy stabs at me with his knife, an’ had I not been powerful quick both me an’ this tale would have wound up mighty different. However Spiggy’s knife don’t even touch me, but it slashes open the sack an’ suddenly I am smothered in evil-tastin’ flour what gits in my mouth an’ nose and does things to me I don’t understand. Right off I go plum’ rarin’ crazy, my hooks workin’ faster than they ever worked in my life. Believe me, I do some fancy cuttin,’ an’ in a second I have all the jumpin’ room I want an’ I am off an’ runnin’ for the upper deck.
    I am half up the companion when I run slap into Mister Craney an’ the Ole Man comin’ down, so I cry out to the Ole Man that I am in a bad way an’ in terrible need of a friend.
    He snaps me up in his mitts an’ asks me what in the blinkin’ sin has happened, an’ what is this white powder doin’ all over me. I tries to tell him Spiggy is the cause of it, an’ yowls for him to hurry on so I kin show him what Spiggy is up to. But I don’t seem to make him understand.
    I am near to havin’ fits in my anxiety, for I am sure Spiggy will git away with his devilishness. But now Mister Cap’n Craney touches me an’ then puts his finger to his lips. “Hah!” he says. “I thought so!” An’ he starts followin’ my trail, which ain’t hard to follow on account of I have left white footprints right down to the hold.
    They hurry, an’ when we reach bottom the Ole Man pushes on the lights an’ stops with a grunt.
    Mister Craney likewise.
    Right there in front of us is Spiggy an’ this big buck of a stoker, with that sack o’ what I thought was flour between ’em. An’ it is very evident they have previously tangled with me, for they are both streamin’ blood where I let ’em feel my hooks.
    They yell an’ start to run, but the Ole Man drops me an’ gives the stoker a jolt with his left an’ fetches Spiggy a stem-winder with his right, an’ by the time they are wobblin’ to their feet Mister Craney has ’em covered with his pistol.
    The Ole Man grabs Spiggy by the throat an’ shakes him loose from his knife. “So ye’re runnin’ dope on my ship, are ye? An’ ye’d try to murder a poor innocent black cat when he catches ye at it, eh?” He shakes Spiggy again so hard that in a minute Spiggy is beggin’ for mercy an’ tellin' everything he knows, which is plenty.
    * * *
    It seems that every week Spiggy has been smugglin’ in a load o’ this white powder, puttin’ it in a flour sack which is marked just like the sacks in all the regular flour shipments. The Customs an’ the Coast Guard are quite nonplussed, for they keep lookin’ for little packages like the extra one Spiggy hid for his own use; an’ of course, since they don’t find nothin,’ they think the Ole Man has got some secret place where he hides it on the Marlin. Now, as the Ole Man shakes it out o’ him, Spiggy tells it all, even namin’ names up an’ down the coast.
    “There’s your dope racket, Mister Craney!” says the Ole Man, turnin’ an’ throwin’ Spiggy at him. “Now make out a statement accountin’ for the damage ye’ve done my ship an’ cargo, then take your prisoners an’ git back to your own deck. I’ll stand by till your screw is cleared, then I don’t want to hear no more nonsense from ye!”
    You would think this would take the wind clean out o’ Mister Craney’s sails, but he is not built that way. It is mornin’ now, the blow has died considerable, an’ Mister Craney struts to the main cargo port, waitin’ for one o’ the Ariel’s boats to come an’ take him off.
    We kin all see he is mighty pleased with himself, what with thinkin’ how he will claim credit for clearin’ up the dope business, an’ laughin’ up his sleeves for keep-in’ the Ole Man in a pickle all night. He looks so smug that I git all riled, an’ I says to myself:
    “Satan, you certainly owe this varmint a stiff turn or two on your own account, an’ three extra for the Ole Man’s sake. If you got any fine instincts in you, it’s time you did something.”
    I ease up to Mister Craney, an’ then stops, for to save the life o’ me I can’t think o’ nothin’ that will take that look off’n his face. It is now that Providence takes a hand, for Mister Cap’n Craney turns, an’ his heel comes down terrible hard on the touchy part o’ my tail which serves me so well as a barometer.
    I jump straight up in the air.
    The hurt an’ the insult of it, plus the hateful smell o’ him, just makes me go plum’ wild an’ before I know it I am tangled with him, my teeth deep in his off ankle an’ my hooks playin’ hell with his shins.
    He shrieks, kicks me off, tries to git his balance, then falls with the prettiest splash over the side that I ever did see. A yell of laughter goes up from the Marlin’s deck an’ it is answered by just as loud a yell from the Ariel, for I guess his own men have a private opinion o’ Mister Craney. The Ariel’s boat hurrys to salvage him, an’ her crew is havin’ a hard time keepin’ their faces straight. When they haul him in Mister Craney’s face is anything but straight, an’ it is anything but smug.
    The Ole Man cocks an eye at me. “Why, Satan,” he says. “I’m downright ashamed o’ ye! Ye shouldn’t insult a Coast Guardsman that way. They’re a mighty fine bunch o’ boys, an’ ye mustn’t blame ’em if some unmannerly scab happens to sign the articles.”
    Then, when the boat puts off with Spiggy, the stoker an’ the evidence, the Ole Man bawls for his steward. “Break out a case o’ salmon an’ a case o’ milk,” he says. “An’ step lively!”
    “Y-yasuh! B-but we’s shy o’ milk, suh.”
    “Ye heard me!” says the Ole Man. “There’s a shipment o’ milk in the hold. Break out a case an’ charge it to Mister Craney. D’ye think I’m goin’ to let the ship’s mascot starve between here an’ Mobile?”

    1938
    (Argosy, vol. 278, #5, January 08, pp.113-123)

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