Scrooge McDuck was a man of many words, and it's no surprise as to why. A self-made élite who earned his vast fortune through various treasure expeditions, his prideful nature gets the best of his beak. Which was what made today in particular seem out of place for this upper-class duck.

Since the trial, he's maintained his composure when workers arrived at McDuck Mansion to Donald-proof the place. No complaints over the barred windows or the inclusion of fences. No disagreement over the notifications about check-ups throughout the course of these upcoming months, instead bobbing his head justly. It wasn't til long after they've gone that Scrooge decided a time to let out a word or two.

Suffice to say, Mrs. Beakley heard it quite clearly when she was out tending the gardens.

"Granny, what was that?" asked Webby, the sudden noise having startled her game of 'Sacky-Sack'. By instinct, she drew a branch from the ground, ready to investigate the possible danger. "It came from inside."

Mrs. Beakley continued watering the bushes like it's only been a slight annoyance. "It's just Mr. McDuck giving Donald a little 'heart-to-heart', Webby dear," she sighed impassively, "You can put the stick down." Relieved, if a smidge embarrassed, Webby dropped her weapon and chuckled. How silly of me, she thought. Scrooge's temper was nothing new, rivaling even Donald's. That's how it's normally been since she arrived here...right?

Though she disliked interrupting her grandmother's work any further, something crossed Webby's mind. "Hey uh, Granny?"

"Hm?"

"Was...um... Mr. McDuck always like this?"

Mrs. Beakley paused, her stern voice trailing. "Well, I wouldn't say 'always'... " It would've been preferable to brush off the question and move on, but no real answer will just intrigue Webby more, becoming eager to ask again. And again... Sighing, Beakley rose and handed Webby her watering can, "How about this? I'll go talk to him while you water these." Webby nodded and accepted the can (only to play with it once Beakley got inside).

The banter had raged on, reaching to levels of ear-splitting as Beakley got closer, not that it affected her. Unbearable, yes, but not the worst she's faced. Fights like these will eventually end soon without intrusion, so she waited by the vault where it took place. A favorite spot it seems. Funny, she could recall a time when that vault wasn't flooded in riches. When her boss had come to accept his newfound title, as strange as that sounds nowadays. For people like Webby, uncovered aspects of Scrooge's past was like a tale of mystery in need of solving. In Beakley's case however, some events are not worth bringing up.

She heard the squeaking of a spinning hand wheel, and plugged her ears in time for a distinctive voice to burst out, "YER LUCKY I DON'T PLUCK A FEATHER FOR EVERY CENT YOU OWE ME!" Out came Scrooge as he slammed the metallic door with a CLANG. Still facing it, he was steadying his breath when Beakley grabbed her opportunity.

"Nice chat, I presume?"

Scrooge's posture drooped and his open arm hung loose. "How long have ye been standin' there?" he grumbled.

"As soon as I hoped Webby hadn't understood your 'colorful' language."

Without looking at her, he paced back and forth, scratching his head with his cane. "I'm in a pickle, Beakley. Do you know how long it took to negotiate his sentence? Curse me kilts! Not only what it had cost me— Get this: The Captain considered keeping soldiers on the property! Soldiers! Spying our every move! I had to persuade Ol' Judge to allow familial guests here or else we'd have to cancel the boys' visit! Imagine the Scrooge McDuck on the verge of begging. After everything I've worked for to maintain this reputation. All at stake because a certain INGRATE can't keep his emotions intact! The one warning I give and-" Scrooge finally caught sight of Mrs. Beakley's disapproving stare and hands on her hips. "Oh come on, Beakley." His voice now low and somber. "Don't give me that look. It was about time the lad learned some discipline."

"I understand that, sir. I too condemn his actions. What he did was idiotic and downright impulsive, but do you really think this behavior of yours will improve the situation?" No response aside from 'hmpf'. How typical. "He may be trouble, but he is still your nephew. Your family, remember? You were the one who agreed to take him in." She proceeded to point towards the vault as she towered over him. "Tell me. Was that the care you promised Hortense? Something Matilda would approve of? Or were they right in having their doubts? Because right now, 'the lad' is beginning to sound like someone I know, and I've worked here long enough to doubt it's a good sign."

Scrooge shook his head. "I have no time for this. There's work to be done." He trudged past her.

"You're not a cruel man." She called out. "but is it too much to show you actually care?"

Nothing. He kept going. Beakley rubbed her temples. To try to reason with that man. With any of them. Had she followed him, perhaps she would have gotten to hear a faint "...Ye had to bring 'em up..."

A rowboat could never substitute for a ship. Yeah, it offered the same tranquil waters and the same salty air, but it lacked the impressive size and tricky mechanics that made it so exciting. Where's the helm? The rudders? It doesn't quite match that breathtaking feeling of being on top of the world.

And those were his two cents on the subject matter if anyone were to ask him one day. Keyword 'if'.

Having been on the receiving end of a recent quarrel has left this lone sailor pretty disgruntled. What with his latest battle scars and desire to punch a wall. He had to drift his mind elsewhere or else the grouchiness will stick with him like a pesky mosquito. And where else but a quick trip to the sea? A single moment to let off some steam. No epic adventure for land this time around. The rowboat will have to do. Granted, it was better than nothing, so he was thankful for that.

The empty shore grew further and further from his reach as he rowed aimlessly through the water, sometimes steering round and round before letting it float on its own. Whatever could serve as a good mental distraction. Speaking of which, there's another thing about rowboats: he's supposed to sit backwards, but how's he to know where he's going? For all he knew, he might Launchpad this thing to a nearby rock. The sailor checked over his shoulder. No rock, just a glimpse of the setting sun over the horizon, its warm colors beaming on his face. He sighed. Should he risk returning to sea, considering the last time?

He reckon reaching down and feeling the current when the rowboat began to tip backwards—er, forwards?— "Huh?" No damage was done to the bow, and he wasn't that heavy, so why's it sinking?! The sailor tried rowing in reverse, leaning forwards, and then clinging to the stern, but nothing helped keep it balanced. "Man overboard!" he screamed as the boat sunk into the water. Ok, don't panic, he reassured himself. I could swim back. No problem. After all, being underwater wasn't so bad. Or at least it shouldn't be until something caught hold of his leg.

No thoughts came to the sailor but to swim. Away from whatever was hauling him to the murky bottom. It grew more into a struggle as his cries for help were muffled by bubbles. His vision started to fade...

Deeper and deeper it dragged him...

Donald's hand emerged from the heap of gold, clawing onto the surface. While gasping for air and coughing out coins, he laid beside the bucket of polish when, once again, something pulled at his foot. Donald yanked it, revealing an iron ball and chain clamped to his ankle. Something to 'keep him at bay' during his incarceration. "This isn't gonna work," he groaned as he pulled his goggles back. How could he finish working if this is going to sink him straight to the pits?

Getting to his feet, he decided he was done for the day. This could be worked out tomorrow. A step later and his face smacked onto the cold metal. Right on cue, he thought. Not a week has gone by and Donald's more than ready to tear this stupid shackle to pieces. But of course, that'll replace his bed with a prison cell, so there was that. He shuffled his way from the vault to the entrance hall, the ball scraping behind him. Uncle Scrooge was filing paperwork in his office, Mrs. B was brewing tea in the kitchen, and then he spotted Webby peeking at some kind of box. Upon closer look, it was a cage hung on a hook with a little bird inside.

"Hey Webby, what's with the bird?"

"Royal Guard said it's the new 'state of the art' security system. They wanted to test it out, so it was brought over." she replied, forcing herself not to stare at the chain. "Y'know, in case you think about escaping and stuff."

Donald held in his laughter. The lengths these people go through. "You mean to tell me if I were to open the door," he demonstrated like so. "And walk right out, this tiny thing is gonna try and stop-"

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

The bird went nuts, fluttering at a rapid speed and shaking the cage. Donald flinched. For something so small, its blaring chirps echoed across the hill. It refused to stop until he hurried inside, almost tripping. "See?" an awed Webby pointed out.

Donald uttered wearily "You know what? I'm gonna pretend that never happened." This was becoming too much and, frankly, he looked forward to a nap. He dismissed himself to a set of stairs, which he gazed in dismay. Had it ever occurred to them that his room would be upstairs before they attached this heavy ball to him? Or maybe they have and went with it anyway. "Ugh..." No matter, he held his breath, bent over and grabbed onto the shackle, dragging it one step at a time.

Step back, tug. Step back, tug. Step back, tug.

A tedious method that halfway through got his palms sweaty. On the bright side though, Scrooge can't blame him for being late whenever he calls him. Not unless he wants a nice Don-shaped hole on the floor. No, he'll call Gladstone instead and actually make him do something productive. That'd be better.

"How's it going, Cuz?"

Speak of the devil.

"Nearly drowned. How about you?" remarked Donald. He had about reached the top when Gladstone appeared from behind. Although he wanted to ignore him, he glanced up and noticed his cousin fixing himself up as he turned to a mirror coincidentally right there. "Wait, where are you going?"

"Out." Gladstone boasted, adjusting his cravat. "Can't stay cooped up here for long, so I thought 'Hm, I should go take a walk'. Heard it'll be a pleasant evening tonight. A beautiful bouquet will doubtlessly come my way. Do you wanna come? —Oh whoops, my bad." He chuckled and patted Donald on the back.

Donald scowled, dropping the chain. "Does Uncle Scrooge know about this?"

Gladstone snapped his fingers at his reflection, seemingly unaware of Donald's apparent grudge. "Hey, great idea! You can let him know. Though I'm sure he wouldn't mind. Strolling isn't, well, a crime or anything." He then made his way down. "Well, I should get going. Later, Donaldo. Don't forgot to watch your step!"

At this point Donald's mind has been so clouded, he didn't really get what Gladstone meant by that. That was until he realized too late that the iron ball had just rolled off the stairs.