Cappy Ricks was in a fine rage. A situation, unique in his forty years of experience as a lumber and shipping magnate, was confronting him, with the prospects exceedingly bright for Cappy playing a role analogous to that of the simpleton who holds the sack on a snipe-hunting expedition. He summoned Mr. Skinner into his private office, and glared at the latter over the rims of his spectacles. “Skinner,” he said solemnly, “there's the very devil to pay.”
Mr. Skinner arched his eyebrows and inclined a respectful ear. Cappy continued:
“It's about the Hermosa. Skinner, that dog-barking navigator you put in that schooner while I was on my vacation has balled us up for fair. I'll be the laughing-stock of the street.”
Parenthetically it may be stated that the Blue Star Navigation Company's schooner, Hermosa, had cleared from Astoria for Valparaiso with a cargo of railroad ties, and, for some reason which the captain could not explain but which Cappy Ricks could, the unfortunate man had become lost at sea, finally ending his voyage on a reef on one of the Samoan Islands. The Hermosa had been listed as missing and her owners had been on the point of receiving a check for the insurance on the vessel and her cargo when an Australian steamer brought news of her predicament in Samoa. Her captain sent word that she was resting easily and that he would get her off. Subsequently, Cappy learned that his dog-barking skipper had discharged his cargo of railroad ties on barges, in order to lighten the vessel and float her off with the aid of a launch. Unfortunately, however, he discovered a huge hole in her garboard, and before he could patch it an extra high tide lifted the vessel over the reef and sunk her forty fathoms deep in a place where nobody could ever get at her again.
“Yes, sir,” Cappy complained. “I'll be the laughing-stock of the street. Here's a letter from the insurance people, inclosing a check for a total loss on the vessel, but they repudiate payment of the insurance on the cargo.”
“Why?” demanded the amazed Skinner. “They insured those ties for delivery at Callao. They can't get out of it.”
“I'll bet they can,” Cappy shrilled. “I've just called up the Board of Underwriters and they say the cargo hasn't been lost. They say nothing is lost if you know where it is, and the ties are on the beach in Samoa awaiting our pleasure. Skinner, call up our attorneys at once and tell them to enter suit.”
“I was just about to call them up on another matter,” Mr. Skinner replied. “As secretary of the Blue Star Navigation Company I have just been served with a summons in another suit, entered against the Quickstep.”
“What in the fiend's name is the matter with that infernal Quickstep? This is the third suit we've had in two years. Skinner, what is wrong with that steam schooner?”
“She must be hoodooed, Mr. Ricks.”
“Another seaman injured by being hit with a cargo block or having a piece of eight-by-eight drop on his foot, I suppose.”
“Not this time, Mr. Ricks. One Halvor Jacobsen has sued the Quickstep and owners for five thousand dollars for injuries alleged to have been inflicted upon him by the captain.”
“So that Captain Kjellin has been fighting again, eh? Skinner, that man is too handy with his fists, I tell you. He's another one of your favorites, by the way. I only put that fellow in the Quickstep to please you.”
“We haven't a better man in our employ,” Mr. Skinner asserted stoutly. “He carries larger cargoes and makes faster time than any steam-schooner captain in our vessels of similar carrying capacity. He's a dividend producer, Mr. Ricks, and he is very efficient.”
“Don't talk to me of efficiency,” Cappy snarled. “What's the sense rushing the vessel round Robin Hood's barn to make dividends, if we lose them in lawsuits?”
“His vessel didn't lay up during the strike of the Waterfront Federation in 1903,” Skinner challenged. “You bet she didn't! Kjellin rustled up a scab crew and kept the mob off the vessel at the point of a gun. I understand he's a bit short-tempered, but while there are ships with red-blooded men in them, Mr. Ricks, we must expect the men to pull off a couple of rounds with skin gloves every so often.”
Cappy looked over the rims of his spectacles at Mr. Skinner. “Skinner,” he said impressively, “listen to me: This is the last suit that's going to be entered against the Quickstep. Was that man Halvor Jacobsen who is suing us second mate on the Quickstep?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I knew it,” Cappy shrilled triumphantly. “Skinner, with all your efficiency ideas, you fail to see anything remarkable in that fact. Now don't tell me you do, because I know you do not. This is the third suit since Kjellin took charge, and that's proof enough for me that there's something wrong with that big Finn. Those other two suits were for injuries received by men loading cargo in the after hold. The after hold is presided over by the second mate.” Cappy waved his hands. “Huh!” he said. “Simple!”
“I believe I comprehend,” Mr. Skinner admitted. “But what are you going to do about it? We can scarcely discharge Kjellin without a hearing and without proof that he is to blame.”
“What am I going to do about it?” Cappy echoed. “Why, I'm going to send a judge and a jury aboard the Quickstep, try this Finn, Kjellin, and if he's guilty of dereliction of duty I'll bet you a plug hat to one small five-cent bag of smoking tobacco I'll know all about it inside of a week.”
“Do you mean to put a secret-service operative aboard disguised as a deckhand?”
“Huh! Skinner, you distress me. I'm going to put Matt Peasley aboard the Quickstep as second mate, and let Nature take its course.”
“I wouldn't do that if I were you, sir,” Mr. Skinner advised. “That rowdy Peasley and a man like Kjellin will not get along together for one voyage; then Kjellin will fire him, and first thing you know you'll be groping around in the dark again.”
“Oh, I know this Finn is a pet of yours,” Cappy retorted acidly, “but Matt Peasley is a pet of mine. If we put them together in the same ship maybe we'll have one of those skin-glove contests you referred to a minute ago, but between their mutual recriminations you can bet your hopes of Heaven I'll catch a glimpse of the truth and act accordingly. Matt will not tell a lie, Skinner. Remember that.”
“Neither will Kjellin,” Skinner declared with equal warmth.
“Well, I don't know whether he will or not. However, that's beside the question. Where is the Florence Ricks?”
“Sailed from San Pedro at noon yesterday.”
“Where is the Quickstep?”
“Sailed from Eureka to load shingles last night.”
“Good. Wireless the master of the Florence to provide himself with a new second mate. That will give him time to wireless ahead and have one waiting for him when the vessel touches in to discharge passengers from the south. Tell him to inform Peasley he isn't fired, but just transferred. Attend to it, Skinner.”
While Mr. Skinner departed to carry out Cappy's order, the old gentleman called up Harbor 15, Masters' and Pilots' Association, and asked for the secretary.
“Ricks of the Blue Star speaking,” he announced crisply. “Been furnishing many second mates to the Quickstep lately?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Ricks. Kjellin wires for a new second mate quite frequently. They don't seem to stay with him more than a voyage or two. He's quite a driver, you know, Mr. Ricks.”
“I know,” Cappy replied grimly. “The next time he wires in to have a second mate join the ship when he touches in here, you might be good enough to call me up. I have a skookum young second mate in the Florence Ricks that I'm training for a captain, and I want to switch him in on the Humboldt Bay run for the sake of the experience. And, of course, you know how it is with masters—they like to think they're selecting their own mates, and always resent any interference from their owners. And if you do ask them to take a certain mate they're apt to suspect he's a spy from the office, and—well, you understand. I'd prefer to have this lad I have in mind go aboard as if you had sent him.”
“I understand, Mr. Ricks. I'll let you know the first time Kjellin wires in.”
“Well, Matt,” said Cappy Ricks, cheerfully, as he shook hands with the late second mate of the Florence Ricks. “We don't see much of each other now that you're a mate. But don't worry, you'll be a master again, and then you'll be dropping in here a couple of times a month pestering me for a lot of things for your ship that you could probably get along without. You're looking fit, my boy.”
“I'm feeling fit, sir,” Matt replied, grinning.
“I'm glad to hear it,” was Cappy's grim reply. “Hum! Harump-h-h-h! Let me see now. You've had your course in the Mendocino dog-holes, and that's over. I hope you learned something. You've run for seven months from all the Washington and Oregon ports to Southern California, and—er—that's very nice. But you haven't been over Humboldt Bar yet, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you have something coming. Quite a bar in the winter time, Matt, quite a bar! Good many tickets been lost on that bar, Matt, so you ought to have more than a nodding acquaintance with it. You're going second mate in the Quickstep. She's carrying redwood shingles from Eureka to the Shingle Association's air-drying yards up river at Los Medanos at present, and she'll get to Los Medanos Sunday afternoon, so you'd better get there about the same time, in order to turn to discharging bright and early Monday morning. And you'll have to step lively, Matt. The Quickstep lives up to her name, and the way they put shingles into that vessel is a scandal.”
“Shingles are nice stuff to handle,” Matt ventured.
“Not redwood shingles, Matt. All right after they're dry, but when they come fresh from the saws they bleed a little, so be sure and wear gloves when you handle them. If you have a cut on your hand that redwood sap may poison you. I think you'll like the Quickstep, Matt.”
“It doesn't matter whether I do or not,” Matt replied humorously. “You always do things for me without consulting me anyhow.”
“Why, you don't mind, do you, my boy? It's all for your own good.”
“I can bear it, sir, because one of these bright days I'm going to do something without consulting you.”
Cappy favored him with a sharp glance. “As the street boys say,” he flashed back, “'I get you, Steve!'”
“And having gotten me, Mr. Ricks, do you still want me in your employ?”
“Oh, certainly, certainly. Any time I want to get rid of you I'll fire you or have Skinner do it for me.”
Matt looked at his watch and rose. “I have four days' shore leave before me, sir,” he said, “so I guess I'll be trotting along and make the most of it. I'll be at Los Medanos Sunday night.”
“Her skipper's a big Finn,” Cappy warned him. “Behave yourself, Matt. He's bad medicine for young second mates.”
“I'll do my duty, sir.”
He took his leave. As he went out the door Cappy gazed after him with twinkling eyes: “Young scoundrel!” he murmured. “Damned young scoundrel! You'll be ringing Florry up the minute you leave this office, if you haven't already done it. I'm onto you, young fellow!”
Matt Peasley took Florry Ricks to a matinee that very day. Cappy, suspecting he might attempt something of the sort and desiring to verify his suspicions, went home from the office early that day, and from his hiding place behind the window drapes in his drawing room he observed a taxicab draw up in front of his residence at six o'clock. From this vehicle Matt Peasley, astonishingly well tailored, alighted, handed out the heir to the Ricks millions, said good-by lingeringly and drove away.
“Well,” Cappy soliloquized, “I guess I'm going to land the son-in-law I'm after. The matinee is over at a quarter of five, and those two have fooled away an hour. I'll bet a dollar Florry steered that sailor into a tea fight somewhere, and if she did that, Matt, you're a tip-top risk and I'll underwrite you.”
That same evening Cappy sneaked into his daughter's apartments and found a photograph of Matt Peasley in a hammered silver frame on Florry's dressing table.
“Holy sailor!” he chuckled. “They think they're putting one over on the old gentleman, don't they? Trying to cover me with blood, eh? Huh! If I'd let that fellow Matt stay ashore he'd have hung round Florry until he wore out his welcome, and I suppose in the long run I'd have had to put up with one of these lawn-tennis, tea-swilling young fellows too proud to work. By Judas Priest, when I quit the street I want to give my proxy to a lad that will make my competitors mind their step, and by keeping Matt at sea a couple of years, I'll get him over the moon-calf period. Deliver my girl and my business from the hands of a damned fool!”
The following evening Cappy questioned his daughter's chauffeur—a chauffeur, by the way, being a luxury which Cappy scorned for himself. He maintained a coachman and a carriage and a spanking team of bays, and drove to his office like the old-fashioned gentleman he was. From this chauffeur Cappy learned that he, the chauffeur, had been out all the afternoon with Miss Florence and a large, light-hearted young gentleman. They had lunched together at the Cliff House.
“What did she call him?” Cappy demanded, anxious to verify his suspicions. “Didn't she address him as 'Matt?'”
“No, sir,” the man replied, grinning. “She called him 'dearie.'”
“Holy jumped-up Jehosophat!” murmured Cappy, and questioned the man no further. That evening, however, he decided to have a heart—particularly after Florry had informed him that she was going out to dinner the following night.
“And you'll be all alone, popsy-wops,” she added, “so you had better eat dinner at the club.”
“Oh, I'm tired of my clubs,” Cappy replied sadly. “Still your remark gives me an idea, Florry. If I happen to run across that young fellow Peasley—you remember him, Florry; the boy I'm training for a steamship captain—I'll have him out for dinner with me so I'll not have to eat alone.”
“I thought you didn't care for him socially,” Florry put forth a feeler.
“Well, he used to remind me considerably of a St. Bernard pup, but I notice he's losing a lot of that fresh, puppy-dog way he used to have. And then he's a Down-East boy. His Uncle Ethan Peasley and I were pals together fifty years ago, and for Ethan's sake I feel that I ought to show the boy some consideration. He's learning to hold himself together pretty well, and if I should run into him to-morrow I'll ask him out.”
Florry exhibited not the slightest interest in her father's plans, but he noticed that immediately after dinner she hurried up to her room, and that upon her return she declined a game of pool with her father on the score of not feeling very well.
“You skipped upstairs like a sick woman,” Cappy reflected. “I'll bet a hat you telephoned that son of a sea cook to be sure and throw himself in my way to-morrow, so I'll invite him out to dinner. And you're complaining of a headache now so you'll have a good excuse to cancel that dinner engagement to-morrow night so as to eat at home with your daddy and his guest. Poor old father! He's such a dub! I'll bet myself a four-bit cigar I eat breakfast alone to-morrow morning.”
And it was even so. Florry sent down word that she was too indisposed to breakfast with her father, and the old man drove chuckling to his office. That afternoon Matt Peasley, in an endeavor to invade the floor of the Merchants' Exchange, to which he had no right, was apprehended by the doorkeeper and asked to show his credentials.
“Oh, I'm Captain Peasley, of the Blue Star Navigation Company,” he replied lightly, and was granted admittance as the courtesy accorded all sea captains. He knew Cappy Ricks always spent an hour on 'Change after luncheon at the Commercial Club. When Cappy met him, however, the old man was mean enough to pay not the slightest attention to Matt; so after waiting round for three-quarters of an hour longer, the latter left the Exchange and walked down California Street, where he posted himself in the shelter of a corner half a block south of No. 258, where the Blue Star Navigation Company had its offices. From this vantage point presently he spied Cappy trotting home from the Merchants' Exchange; whereupon Matt strolled leisurely up the street and met him. And in order that Cappy should realize whom he was meeting Matt bumped into the schemer and then begged his pardon profusely.
“Don't mention it, Matt,” the old rascal protested. “You shook up a flock of ideas in my head and jarred one loose. If you haven't anything on to-night, my boy, better come out to the house and have dinner with me. I'm all alone and I want company.”
“Thank you, sir,” Matt replied enthusiastically; “I'll be glad to come.”
“You bet you will,” Cappy thought. Aloud he said: “At six-thirty.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” And Matt Peasley was off like a tin-canned dog to slick himself up for the party, while Cappy entered the elevator chuckling. “If I ever find the sour-souled philosopher who said you can't mix business and sentiment without resultant chaos,” he soliloquized, “I'll boil the kill-joy in oil.”
The big steam schooner Quickstep was lying at the Los Medanos dock when Matt Peasley reported for duty. The captain was not aboard, but the first mate received him kindly and explained that Captain Kjellin had gone down to San Francisco by train for a little social relaxation and to bring back funds to pay off the longshoremen.
Early on Monday morning the crew and a large force of stevedores commenced to discharge the vessel. Two winches were kept busy, the first mate being in charge of the work up forward and Matt superintending that aft. The shingles were loaded in huge rope cargo nets, snatched out of the ship and swung overside onto flat cars, which were shunted off into the drying yard as soon as loaded.
The captain returned at noon on Tuesday, and at two o'clock the last bundle of shingles was out of the Quickstep, for the mate had worked overtime Monday night in order that they might finish discharging early enough on Tuesday afternoon to drop down to Oleum and take on fuel oil for the next voyage. This schedule would bring them to the dock at San Francisco about six o'clock, where they would take on stores and passengers and sail at seven for Eureka, on Humboldt Bay, where they would arrive Wednesday night. On Thursday they would commence taking on cargo, but since they had to take shingles from several mills round the bay, they were bound to be delayed waiting for tides to get in and out, and in all probability they would not be loaded and at sea until Saturday night, which would give them Sunday at sea—and in the lumber trade on the Pacific Coast the only profitable way to spend Sunday is to spend it at sea. To spend it in port is a day lost, with the crew loafing and drawing full pay for it. The mate explained to Matt that Captain Kjellin would drive them hard to maintain this schedule, for he prized his job as master of the Quickstep, and had a reputation for speed and efficiency with his owners which he was anxious to maintain.
Despite their best efforts, however, the vessel was doomed to fall behind her schedule. At Oleum they found the oil dock lined with vessels taking on fuel, and in consequence were forced to wait two hours for a berth; seeing which the captain went ashore and telephoned his owners that he would be unable to get to the dock in San Francisco until about eight o'clock. Consequently, Mr. Skinner, realizing that the passengers their agent had booked for the Quickstep, by reason of the cut-rates prevailing on lumber steamers, would not wait on the dock until the Quickstep should arrive, instructed the captain to lay over in San Francisco all night and put to sea at nine o'clock Wednesday morning. In the meantime he said he would send a clerk down to the dock to notify the waiting passengers of the unavoidable change in schedule.
Promptly at eight o'clock Wednesday morning the Quickstep got away from the dock. The minute she was fairly out the Golden Gate, however, she poked her nose into a stiff nor'west gale; and as she was bound north and was empty, this gale, catching her on the port counter, caused her to roll and pitch excessively, and cut her customary speed of ten miles an hour down to five. Every passenger aboard was soon desperately seasick, and off Point Reyes so violently did the Quickstep pitch that even some members of the crew became nauseated, among them Matt Peasley. He had never been seasick before and he was ashamed of himself now, notwithstanding the fact that he knew even the hardiest old seadogs are not proof against mal-de-mer under certain extraordinary conditions. Captain Kjellin, coming up on the bridge during Matt's watch, found the latter doing the most unseamanlike thing imaginable. Caught in a paroxysm at the weather end of the bridge, Matt, in his agony, was patronizing the weather rail! The captain heard him squawk, and ducked to avoid what instinct told him the gale would bring him his way.
“Vat you ban tankin' of?” he roared furiously. “You damned landsman! Don't you know enough to discharge dot cargo over der lee rail?”
Having disposed of a hearty breakfast, Matt raised his green face and stared sheepishly at the Finn. “You didn't get sprayed, did you, sir?” he queried breathlessly.
“No, but who der devil ever heard of a seaman gettin' sick to windward—?”
“I know it looks awful, sir,” quavered Matt. “I thought something like this might happen, and in order to be prepared for eventualities I hung a fire bucket over the edge of the weather-bridge railing and set another there by the binnacle. The man at the wheel got me started, sir. He asked me if I liked fat pork. Can't you see that if I had made a quick run for the lee rail while the vessel was pitching to leeward the chances are I'd continue right on overboard? As soon as I get my bearings again I'll empty the bucket, sir.”
“Der fire buckets ban't for dot purpose.”
“All right, sir. I'll buy you a new fire bucket when we get to Eureka,” Matt answered contritely.
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. He controlled his temper and said:
“I'm doing the best I can, sir. That winchman doesn't have to wait on us a second, sir. We handle them as fast as they swing them in from the mill dock.”
“Yump in an' do somedings yourself,” Kjellin growled. “Don't stand roundt like a young leddy.”
“D'ye mean you want I should mule shingles round in this hold like a longshoreman?”
“Sure! Ve got to get to sea Sunday morning, und every liddle bit helps.”
“Well, then you'll get along without my little bit. If you don't know your business, sir, I know mine. Somebody's got to tend that sling, and everybody's business is nobody's business. If I'm not on the job a bundle of shingles may come flying down from above and kill a man, or that heavy cargo block may crack a stevedore on the head. Who's going to look after the broken bundles and see that they're repacked if I don't? I can't do that and mule shingles round in this hold, sir; and what's more I'm not going to do it.”
“Den, by yimminy, you get off der ship!” the captain roared. “I don't vant no loafers aboard my boat, und if you tank—”
“Stow the gab, you big Finn! I'm through. Pay me off and help yourself to another second mate.” And Matt put on his coat and whistled to the winchman to steady his slingload while he climbed out of the hold. Kjellin followed and Matt preceded him to his stateroom, where the captain paid him the few dollars he had coming to him.
“Sign clear,” he ordered, and Matt took an indelible pencil and stooped over the skipper's desk to sign the pay roll. As he straightened up the captain's powerful left forearm came round Matt's left shoulder and under his chin, tilting his head backward, while the Finn's left knee ground into the small of his back. He was held as in a vise, helpless, and Kjellin spoke:
“Ven I get fresh young faler like you, an' he quit me cold, I lick him after I pay him off.”
“I see,” Matt replied calmly. “That makes it a plain case of assault and battery, whereas if you lick him before you pay him off, he can sue your owners. You're a fine, smart squarehead!”
“You bet!” Kjellin answered, and struck him a stunning blow behind the ear. Matt, realizing his inability to wriggle out of the captain's grasp, kicked backward with his right foot and caught the Finn squarely on the right shin, splintering the bone. The captain cried out with the pain of it and released the pressure on Matt's chin, whereupon the latter whirled, picked the Finn up bodily, and threw him through the stateroom door out onto the deck, where he struck the pipe railing and rebounded. He lay where he fell, and when Matt's brain cleared and he came out on deck the captain was moaning.
“Get up, you brute!” Matt ordered. “You got the wrong pig by the ear that time.”
“My leg ban broken,” Kjellin whimpered.
“I wish it was your neck,” Matt replied with feeling, and bent over to examine his fallen foe. When he grasped Kjellin by the right shoulder, however, the Finn screamed with pain, so Matt called the steward, and together they lifted him and carried him to his berth.
“I'll bet a cooky you're a total loss and no accident insurance,” Matt soliloquized. “You're not worth it, but for the sake of the owners I'll get a doctor to look you over,” and he went ashore at once. When the doctor had looked Thorwald Kjellin over his verdict was a broken tibia, a broken radius and a broken clavicle.
Matt was concerned. “I don't think I ever had any of those things to get broken,” he declared humorously, “but if mere words mean anything I'll bet this is a hospital job.” The doctor nodded, and Matt turned to the captain: “Do you want to go to the hospital in Eureka or in San Francisco?”
“I ban vant to go home,” the Finn moaned.
“Very well, captain; I guess your successor will bring you there. I'm going up to the mill office now to report to the owners by telephone.”
“Dot ban't none o' your business, Peasley,” Kjellin protested. “Dot is der first mate's job. You ban fired.”
“Yes, I know. Now I'm back-firing,” Matt retorted.
Fifteen minutes later he had Cappy Ricks on the long-distance telephone.
“Mr. Ricks,” he began, “this is Peasley talking from Eureka. I have to report that I'm fired out of the Quickstep. I'm not complaining about that or asking you to reinstate me, because I can get another job now, but I want to tell you why I was fired. The captain got a grouch against me coming up. We had a nor'west gale on our port counter and she rolled and bucked until even some of the crew got seasick. I'm ashamed to say I fell by the wayside myself for a few minutes, and Captain Kjellin caught me draped over the weather bridge railing. So I guess he thought I wasn't much of a seaman. Anyhow he picked on me from then on, and a little while ago he ordered me to mule shingles with the longshoremen in the after hold. I couldn't do that, Mr. Ricks. I'm a ship's officer, and besides you've simply got to have somebody to watch the slings when they're coming into the ship at the rate of two a minute or somebody will get hurt, and then the vessel will be sued for damages. You see we were working overtime and in a hurry to get loaded—”
“I see everything,” Cappy retorted. “What happened next?”
“The captain got me foul in his cabin when I went to be paid off, and hung a shanty back of my ear, so I threw him out on deck and hurt him. You'll have to send a new skipper up to bring the Quickstep home, sir. The first mate is a good man but he hasn't a master's license—”
“What did you do to Kjellin, Matt?”
“You'll have to ask a doctor, sir. I didn't intend to break him up, but it seems I damaged all his Latin superstructure, and he'll have to go to a hospital for a couple of months. I'm sorry I hurt your skipper, sir, and I felt I couldn't leave your employ, Mr. Ricks, without an explanation.”
“You haven't left my employ at all. Get back on the job and load that vessel, or the first thing you know you'll be stuck in port over Sunday, and that's not the way to make a start as master of the Quickstep. You have a license as master of steam, haven't you?”
“Yes, sir. I can handle her, sir.”
“Then do it and don't stand there burning up good money on the long-distance phone. The Quickstep is yours—on one condition.”
“I accept it, sir,” Matt exclaimed, overjoyed. “What is it?”
“That you stick in her at least six months.”
“I will if I live and she floats that long, sir. Thank you. Please have a second mate and an ambulance waiting for me at Meiggs Wharf on Monday. I'll touch in there on my way up river to discharge what's left of your skipper.”
Down in the offices of the Blue Star Navigation Company Cappy Ricks, having summoned Mr. Skinner, sat peering whimsically at the general manager over the rims of his spectacles. “Well, Skinner, my dear boy,” he announced presently, “sure enough there was something wrong with the Quickstep, and now I know what it is; she has had the wrong master. When he hustles to catch a tide or to get to sea Saturday night or Sunday morning he drives his mates and tries to make them do longshoremen's work. When he bullied a weak mate into doing that, there was nobody to pay exclusive attention to the slingloads as they came into the ship, and naturally accidents resulted. When strong second mates refused he fired them, and after firing them he cornered them in his cabin, held them foul and beat them. You see, Skinner, this skookum skipper of yours didn't realize that with two slingloads of shingles a minute dropping into the ship he had to have a man on the job to watch the loading and do nothing else; and because he didn't realize the error of his way, Skinner, he and Matt Peasley have pulled off that little skin-glove contest, and now Kjellin looks like a barrel of cement that's been dropped out the window of a six-story building. Hum! Ahem! Harump-h-h-h! Call up the attorney for that man Jacobsen that's suing the Quickstep, and tell him to come down here with his man and we'll settle the case out of court. His charge lies against Kjellin for assault and battery, but after all, Skinner, I dare say we are in a measure responsible for our servants. I'll give the attorney about twenty-five dollars for his fee, and er—the man Jacobsen—let me see, Skinner, he had a broken nose, did he not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We'll pay his doctor bill and his wages as second mate since Kjellin fired him, and give him a hundred dollars extra.”
“How about Kjellin's hospital bill?”
“I disclaim responsibility, Skinner. Did he settle up with the cashier for his last voyage?”
“Yes, Mr. Ricks.”
“Then send him a wireless and tell him he's fired. Also, Skinner, my boy, see that an ambulance is waiting for him at Meiggs Wharf when he arrives on the Quickstep on Monday. We'll show him we're not entirely heartless. Make it clear, however, that this office will not be responsible for the ambulance fee. Matt will bring the vessel down without a second mate, I dare say. He'll stand a watch himself. Better call up Harbor 15 and see if there isn't a second mate out of a job hanging round there, and tell him to join the ship at Meiggs Wharf.”
Mr. Skinner's eyes fairly popped. “You don't mean to tell me, sir, that you've given the Quickstep to that rowdy Peasley?”
Cappy relapsed into the colloquialism of the younger generation with which he was wont to associate at luncheon. “Surest thing you know,” he said.
“If I may be permitted a criticism, Mr. Ricks—”
“You may not.”
“Your sentimental leaning toward your fellow townsman may be the cause of losing one of the best paying ships of the fleet.”
“Forget it, Skinner!”
“Oh, very well. You're the boss, Mr. Ricks. But if I were in your place I would have an older and more experienced man to relieve him the moment he comes into the bay. You must remember, Mr. Ricks, that while he may run her very nicely during the summer months, he has had no experience on Humboldt Bay during the winter months—”
“Skinner, the only way he'll ever accumulate experience on that bar is to give him the opportunity.”
“He'll take big risks. He's very young and headstrong.”
“I admit he's fiery. But I promised him a ship, and he's earned her sooner than I planned, so, even if my decision loses the Quickstep for us, he shall have her. I'll be swindled if I ever did see the like of that boy Matt. He gets results. And do you know why, Skinner?”
“Because,” Mr. Skinner replied coldly, “he's a huge, healthy animal, able and willing to fight his way in any ship, and at the same time clever enough to take advantage of your paternal interest in him—”
“Rats! I'll give you the answer, Skinner, my boy: He gets results because he does his duty and doesn't sidestep for man or devil. And he's able to do his duty and do it well because he has a clear understanding of what his duty is—and that, Skinner, is the kind of skipper material I've been looking for all my life. As for the boy's horsepower, let me tell you this: If Matt Peasley wasn't any bigger than I am, he'd fight any man that tried to walk over him. It's in his breed. Damn it, sir, he's a Yankee skipper, and when you've said that you're through. I guess I know. How much have we been paying that bully Kjellin?”
“Two hundred a month.”
“Too much! Pay Matt two-twenty-five and attend to the certificate of change of masters.”
When Mr. Skinner had departed Cappy sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, as was his habit when his gigantic brain grappled with a problem of more than ordinary dimensions. For fully ten minutes he sat absolutely motionless, then suddenly he straightened up like a jack-in-the-box and summoned Mr. Skinner.
“Skinner,” he said plaintively, “I'm feeling a little run down. Will you please be good enough to book Florry and me passage to Europe right away. I've never been to Europe, you know, Skinner, and I think it's time I took a vacation.”
Mr. Skinner smiled. “Why all the hurry?” he queried.
“I want to try out a theory,” Cappy replied. “I have a great curiosity, Skinner, to ascertain if there is any truth in the old saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder. And if it does, Skinner—why, the sooner I start the sooner I can get back.”
Mr. Skinner went out mystified. As Mark Twain's friend, Mr. Ballou, remarked about the coffee, Cappy Ricks was a little too “technical” for him.
The Quickstep had arrived in port again before Cappy Ricks and Florry could get away to Europe, so Matt came down by train from Los Medanos and was granted the meager comfort of a farewell with his heart's desire. Thereafter all comfort fled his life, for, with Cappy Ricks away, Mr. Skinner was high and low justice, and he was not long keeping Matt Peasley in ignorance of the fact that it was one thing to skipper a Blue Star ship for Cappy Ricks and quite another thing to skipper the same ship for the Blue Star manager. For Mr. Skinner had never liked Captain Peasley, and, moreover, he never intended to, for the master of the Quickstep was not sufficiently submissive to earn the general manager's approbation as a desirable employee, and Cappy Ricks was the only man with a will and a way of his own who could get along amicably in the same office with the efficient and cold-blooded Mr. Skinner.
Cappy wasn't outside Sandy Hook before Mr. Skinner had Matt on the carpet for daring to bring the Quickstep up river without a pilot. He demanded an explanation.
“I made careful note of all the twists and turns when the pilot took me up the first time,” Matt declared. “It isn't a difficult channel, so I decided to save forty-five dollars the next time and take her up myself.”
“Suppose you'd buried her nose in the mud and we'd had to lighter her deckload to get her off,” Mr. Skinner suggested.
Matt grinned. “If your aunt was a man she'd be your uncle, wouldn't she?” he parried. He had made up his mind not to take Mr. Skinner seriously. Mr. Skinner flushed, looked dangerous, but concluded not to pursue the investigation further.
Three weeks later, when making up to a dock at San Pedro, a strong ebb tide and a mistake in judgment swung the bow of the Quickstep into the end of the dock and a dolphin was torn out. In the fullness of time the Blue Star Navigation Company was in receipt of a bill for $112 dock repairs, whereupon Mr. Skinner wrote Matt, prefacing his letter with the query: “Referring to inclosed bill—how did this happen?” Then he went on to scold Matt bitterly for his inability to handle his ship properly in making up to a dock.
Matt promptly returned Mr. Skinner his own letter, with this penciled memorandum at the bottom of the page: “Referring to inclosed bill for dock repairs—the dock happened to be in my course. That's the only way I can account for it.”
For some time, whenever the Quickstep carried shingle cargoes for the Shingle Association, there had been disputes over her freight bill, due to continued discrepancies between the tally in and the tally out, and Mr. Skinner had instructed Matt to tally his next cargo into the ship himself and then tally it out again. Matt engaged a certified lumber surveyor at five dollars a day to do the tallying at the various mills, but at Los Medanos he tallied the cargo out personally. To a shingle it agreed with the mill tally. Subsequently the manager of the drying yard reported a shortage of eight thousand shingles, and again Mr. Skinner wrote Matt for an explanation, to which Matt replied as follows:
“Do not pay any attention to the yard manager's tally. Ours is right. A certified tallyman counted 11,487,250 in, and I counted 11,487,250 out, as I have already reported. Sorry I cannot reverse my decision. However, I have an idea which may account for the shortage: After the vessel is reported down river, the stevedores gather on the dock, and while waiting for us to arrive and commence discharging they whittle shingles to pass the time away. I give you this information for what it may be worth.”
Mr. Skinner had the grace to see that he had been rebuked and left standing in a very poor light for one of his noted efficiency, so he did not pursue the subject further; but the next time Matt came to the office he jumped on him for carrying a dead-head passenger from San Pedro in the first cabin.
“Of course I carried him,” Matt replied. “When I was before the mast in the Annabel Lee he was her skipper, so when I met him in Pedro minus his ticket and stony broke I gave him a lift to San Francisco. Mr. Ricks informed me that I would be permitted these little courtesies within the bounds of reason.”
“When Captain Kjellin had the Quickstep,” Mr. Skinner answered, “he never carried dead-heads.”
“You mean he didn't have the courage to put the name on the passenger list and write D. H. after it. However, please do not compare me with Captain Kjellin.”
“Well, you're not making the time he made in the Quickstep.”
“I know it, sir. My policy is to make haste slowly. Kjellin hurried—and see what happened to him. He'll never be fast again, either, with that short leg of his.”
“Captain Peasley, I am opposed to your levity.”
“Do you want me to worry and stew just because you do not happen to like me and keep picking on me, Mr. Skinner? Why don't you be a sport and give me a fair chance, sir? You have all the best of it in any argument—so why argue?”
“No more dead-heads,” Mr. Skinner warned. “Hereafter, pay for your guests.”
With the coming on of winter, however, Matt's troubles with Mr. Skinner really commenced, although, in all justice to Skinner, the general manager was merely following out his theory of efficiency, and in respect to the matter upon which he deviled Matt Peasley most he did not differ vastly from many managing owners of steam schooners on the Pacific Coast. The trouble lay in the fact that the Quickstep carried passengers. While she was a cargo boat, and hence had no regular run or sailing schedule, her cabin accommodations were really very good and her steward's department excelled that of the regular passenger boats. By cutting the regular passenger rates from twenty-five to forty per cent. and advertising the vessel to sail at a certain hour on a certain date from a certain pier, free-lance ticket brokers found no difficulty in getting her a fair complement of passengers each trip. There was a moderate profit in this passenger traffic, and Mr. Skinner was anxious to increase it.
The difficulty surrounding the passenger business in the steam-schooner trade, however, lies in the uncertainty of a vessel's arrival and departure. It is all guesswork. Thus Matt Peasley, with his cargo half discharged at San Pedro, would estimate that he would sail from that port, northbound via San Francisco to some Oregon or Washington port for another cargo, at noon on the following day. Accordingly, he would wire his owners, who would immediately advertise the sailing of the vessel from San Francisco forty hours later, the Quickstep's average running time between San Pedro and San Francisco being about thirty-eight hours. If the master's estimate proved correct and there were no strong head winds to retard the vessel, she would sail within an hour or two of the advertised time, whereas a delay of six to eight hours in the arrival of the vessel at San Francisco might mean the loss of all the passenger business garnered for that trip; for competition was keen, and the ticket agents, selling on a commission of one dollar per ticket, would switch the traffic to some other vessel sailing earlier rather than have the tickets canceled and thus lose the commission.
When through delay or miscalculation the vessel lost passenger traffic out of a port other than San Francisco, Mr. Skinner did not feel discouraged. To lose passengers out of San Francisco, where the home office of the Blue Star Navigation Company was located, however, savored of a reflection on his efficiency, and caused him much bitter anguish. Consequently, when Matt Peasley, with a full passenger list from Eureka to San Francisco, wired Mr. Skinner that he would leave his loading port at two P. M. on Wednesday, Mr. Skinner allowed him twenty-two hours for landing his passengers from Eureka to San Francisco and taking on another load for San Pedro, whither the Quickstep was bound on that voyage. As a result the Quickstep was advertised to sail from San Francisco on Thursday at two P. M., and the agents were notified to commence selling tickets. Judge of Mr. Skinner's perturbation, therefore, when he received the following wireless from Matt Peasley at five o'clock on Wednesday:
Bar breaking heavily. At anchor inside. Will cross out as soon as I judge it safe to do so.
Three hours' delay, already, with the prospects exceedingly bright for the Quickstep's lurking inside Humboldt Bar all night! Mr. Skinner saw his passenger traffic gone to glory for that trip, so he sent a reply to Matt Peasley by wireless, as follows:
You are advertised to sail from here for San Pedro at two o'clock to-morrow. Hope you will permit nothing to militate against the preservation of that schedule. Answer.
“That's what comes of having an inexperienced man in the vessel,” he complained to the cashier. “That fellow Peasley sees a few white caps on the bar, and he's afraid to cross out. Damn! Kjellin had her three years and never hung behind a bar once. Many a time he's come down to Humboldt Bar and found half a dozen steam schooners at anchor inside, waiting for a chance to duck out. Did Kjellin drop anchor too? He did not. Out he went and bucked right through it.”
Mr. Skinner waited at the office until six o'clock to get Matt Peasley's answer. He got it—between the eyes:
I have no jurisdiction over Humboldt Bar.
The Quickstep crossed out next morning, and Mr. Skinner wirelessed her master this message:
Your timidity has spoiled San Pedro passenger business. Drop Eureka passengers at Meiggs Wharf and continue your voyage.
Now it does not please any mariner to be told that he is timid, and, while Matt Peasley made no reply, nevertheless, he chalked up a black mark against Mr. Skinner and commenced to plan against the day of reckoning.
That was an unusually severe winter. Four times Matt Peasley came down to the entrance to Humboldt Bar and came to anchor. Three times he tried to cross out and was forced to change his mind; seven times did Mr. Skinner upbraid him. The eighth time that Matt Peasley's caution knocked the San Francisco passenger traffic into a deficit, Mr. Skinner sent him this message where the Quickstep lay behind Coos Bay Bar:
What is the matter with you? Your predecessor always managed to negotiate that bar, and this company expects same of you.
“He's bound to run me out of this ship,” Matt soliloquized when he read that terse aerogram, “but I promised Cappy I'd stick six months and I'll do it. That penny-pinching Skinner wants me to cut corners and get myself into trouble so he can fire me. I'll not tell him the things I want to tell him, so I guess I won't say anything—much.”
He didn't. He just wired Mr. Skinner as follows:
Any time you want to commit suicide I will furnish a pistol.
About the beginning of March Mr. Skinner opened his cold heart long enough to let in a little human love and get married, and shortly thereafter he found it necessary to make a business trip to the redwood mill of the Ricks Lumber and Logging Company on Humboldt Bay. He went up on the regular P. C. passenger boat and took his bride with him, and while he was at the mill Matt Peasley came nosing in with the Quickstep and loaded a cargo of redwood lumber. He finished loading on the same day that Mr. Skinner discovered he had no further excuse for remaining away from the office, in consequence of which the latter decided to return to San Francisco on the Quickstep. This for several very good reasons: The food on the Quickstep was better than the food on the regular liner, the accommodations were fully as good, the vessel was loaded deeply and would ride steadily—and Mr. Skinner and his bride would travel without charge.
The sight of the Skinners coming aboard was not a pleasing one to Matt Peasley. He did not like Mr. Skinner well enough to care to eat at the same table with him, and he bethought him now of all the mean, nagging complaints of the past six months. In particular he recalled Mr. Skinner's instructions to him anent the carrying of dead-head passengers—and suddenly he had a brilliant idea. He sent for his wireless operator and ordered him to send this message:
Blue Star Navigation Company, San Francisco, Cal.
Please accept my resignation as master of your steamer Quickstep, said resignation to take effect immediately upon my arrival in San Francisco. Kindly have somebody on hand to relieve me.
Matthew Peasley.
Matt had just remembered that his six months in the Quickstep were up. His next move was to call on the steward.
“Go into Stateroom 7,” he ordered, “and collect fifteen dollars from that man and woman in there. They came aboard without tickets.”
Two minutes later the steward was back with word that the passengers in question were dead-heads, being none other than the manager of the Blue Star Navigation Company and his wife.
“Steward, you go back and tell that man Skinner that Captain Peasley never carries any dead-heads on the Quickstep. Tell him that when Captain Peasley wants to carry a guest he pays the guest's passage out of his own pocket.”
“But he'll fire me, sir.”
“Do as I order; he will not fire you. I'm the only man that has that privilege, and I'll exercise it if you don't obey me.”
Two more minutes elapsed; then Mr. Skinner presented himself at the captain's stateroom.
“Peasley,” he said sharply, “what nonsense is this?”
“No dead-heads on this ship, Mr. Skinner. Your own orders, sir. Fifteen dollars, if you please. You're not my guests.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Skinner, “I shall do nothing of the sort.”
“Then get off the ship.”
“Sir, are you crazy?”
“No, I am not; I'm just disgusted with you. Fifteen dollars here and now before I cast off the lines, or I'll run you off the ship. Don't tempt me, Skinner. If I ever lay violent hands on you there'll be work for a doctor.”
Mr. Skinner was speechless, but he laid fifteen dollars on the captain's desk and returned to his stateroom. His silence was ominous. Five minutes later the Quickstep backed out from the mill wharf and headed down the bay. As she plowed along, the rain commenced falling and a stiff southeast breeze warned Matt that he was in for a wet crossing. He was further convinced of this when the bar tug Ranger met him a mile inside the entrance. She steamed alongside, and, as she passed, her captain hailed Matt.
“Don't try to cross out, Peasley,” he shouted. “The bar is breaking.”
“The Quickstep doesn't mind it,” Matt answered.
“Don't try it, I tell you. I've been twenty years on Humboldt Bar and I know it, Peasley. I've never seen it so bad as it is this minute.”
“Oh, we'll cross out without any fuss,” Matt called back cheerfully, and rang for full speed ahead. They were down at the entrance, and the Quickstep had just lifted to the dead water from the first big green roller, when Mr. Skinner came up and touched Matt Peasley on the arm.
“Well, sir?” Matt demanded irritably.
“Drop anchor inside, captain. That bar is too rough to attempt to cross out.”
“Oh, nonsense!” Matt declared.
“But didn't you hear what that tug-boat captain said? He said it was breaking worse than he had known it for twenty years.”
“Bah! What does he know about it?”
“I don't care what he knows, Captain Peasley; I order you not to attempt to cross out. My wife is aboard and I'll take no chances. Come to anchor and wait for the bar to settle.”
“You order me?” Matt sneered. “Who in blazes are you to give orders on my ship? I'm at sea, you understand, and you have nothing to say. You'll give your orders and I'll obey them when I'm at the dock, but crossing Humboldt Bar, I'm the master of ceremonies. I can't turn back now. I'd lose my rudder as I came about. Get out. Who invited you up here?”
“How dare you, sir?” Mr. Skinner cried furiously. “Man, have you lost your mind? Obey me, I say.”
Matt Peasley laughed blithely. “You miserable, cold-blooded, nagging old woman,” he said, and took Mr. Skinner by the nape and shook him. “I've prayed for this day. Do you remember the time you wired me at Coos Bay that my timidity had lost you some passenger traffic? You impugned my courage then, you whelp, and now I'm going to give you a sample of it. All winter long you've been hounding me, trying to make me take chances crossing this bar, just so the vessel might pick up a couple of hundred dollars extra in passenger money. It didn't matter to you what risks other men's wives ran when you were snug in your office, did it? You never thought of the passengers I had aboard, or the lives of my crew or me, did you? You wanted me to cut corners and risk human lives for the sake of your reputation as an efficient manager, you—” And he shook Mr. Skinner until the manager's teeth rattled. “Now you're aboard yourself with your blushing bride, and how do you like it, eh? How do you like it? You know all about navigation, don't you? Well, you and your wife are the only passengers this trip, and I'm going to give you a taste of salt water you'll remember till your dying day,” and with a shove he sent Mr. Skinner flying aft until he collided with the funnel.
“You're fired!” Skinner screamed, beside himself with fear and rage. But Matt Peasley was devoting all of his attention to the Quickstep now; and it was well that he did. The vessel rose on the crest of a green comber thirty feet high, and plunged with the speed of an express elevator into the valley between that wave and the next.
A tremendous sea boiled in over the knight heads and swept aft, burying the Quickstep until nothing showed but her upper works. But she was a sturdy craft and came up from under it, rode the succeeding three seas and was comparatively free of water when she shipped the next one. The crest of it came in along the little promenade deck, carrying away the companion that led to the bridge, staving in the doors and windows of all the staterooms on the port side and carrying away the rails and stanchions. There was two feet of water in Stateroom 7, where Mrs. Skinner clung to her husband, screaming hysterically.
But despite the awful buffeting she was receiving the Quickstep never faltered. On she plowed, riding the green billows like a gull, and shipping a sea only occasionally. The deckload, double-lashed, held, although the deckhouse groaned and twisted until Matt Peasley regretted the impulse that had impelled him to do this foolish thing for the sake of satisfying a grudge.
“She'll make it, sir,” the man at the wheel called up; but Matt's face was a little white and serious as he tried to smile back.
Another sea came ramping aboard and snatched the port lifeboat out of the davits, smashed in the door of the dining saloon and flooded it, gutted the galley, and drove the cook and the steward to the protection of the engine room. The chief called up through the speaking tube:
“How's the boss making it, captain?”
“It's a wet passage for him, chief. I can hear his wife scream every time we ship one.”
“Serves her right for marrying the pest,” the chief growled, and turned away.
They crossed out, but at a cost that made Matt Peasley shudder, when he left the bridge in charge of the mate and went below to take stock of the damage. A new boat and four days' work for a carpenter gang—perhaps eighteen hundred dollars' worth of damage, not counting the demurrage! It was a big price to pay for one brief moment of triumph, but Matt Peasley felt that it would have been cheap at twice the money. He passed round on the starboard side of the vessel and found Mr. Skinner wet to the skin and shivering.
“We're over,” Matt announced cheerfully. “How did you like the going?”
“You villain!” Skinner cried passionately. “You'll never command another ship in the Blue Star fleet, I'll promise you that.”
“I know it, Skinner. But if I were you I'd go down in the engine room and dry out while the cook and the steward straighten things round.”
“I'll discharge you the moment we tie up at the dock in San Francisco,” Skinner stormed.
“Oh, no, you won't,” Matt assured him. “I've beaten you to it. I resigned by wireless before we left the dock at Eureka.”
That was a long, cold, cheerless trip for the Skinner family. The Quickstep bucked a howling southeaster all the way down the coast, and the Skinners were knocked from one end of their wet stateroom to the other and slept not a wink. It was a frightful experience, and to add to the discomfort of the trip Mrs. Skinner wept all the way. Eventually, however, the Quickstep tied up at the wharf in San Francisco, and the minute she was fast Matt Peasley, his accounts all made up to date and his clothes and personal effects packed, sprang out on the dock.
“There's your ship, Skinner,” he called to the general manager. “I'm through.” And he hastened away to the Blue Star office to settle up with the cashier, while Mr. Skinner and his bride entered a taxicab and were driven to their home. And two hours later when Mr. Skinner, warm and dry at last, came down to the office to attend to the task of selecting a new master for the Quickstep, he found Cappy Ricks was back from Europe and on the job.
“I hear you've been having some experience,” said Cappy cheerfully as he shook hands with his manager. “Peasley was telling me what he did to you, and all the disrespectful things he said to you. Skinner, my dear fellow, that was an outrageous way for him to act.”
“I fired him,” said Skinner waspishly. “And while we're on the subject let me declare myself about this man Peasley; as long as I remain in your employ, Mr. Ricks, that man must never command another Blue Star vessel. Do I make myself sufficiently clear?”
“You do, Skinner; you do, indeed,” Cappy answered. “I warned Matt that if you ever fired him, I'd have to back you up—and I'll do it, Skinner. I'll sustain your decision, my boy. As long as you're my manager that fellow can never go to sea under the Blue Star flag. The scoundrel!”
“And I wouldn't recommend him to any other owner either,” Mr. Skinner suggested.
“I'll not, Skinner. He will never go to sea again. I'm not going to have his license taken away from him—er— Hum! Ahem! Harump-h-h-h! But I'll see that he doesn't use it again. The fact is, Skinner, I'm er—getting—old—and—er—you're pretty hard-worked in the lumber department, so I've—Hum! Harump-h-h-h! decided to relieve you of the shipping entirely and hire Matt for our port captain. He's on the pay roll at three hundred a month. And—er—Skinner, try to be friendly with the boy for my sake. The young rascal is engaged to marry my daughter, and I—er—it's barely possible he'll take up the business—Hum! Ahem! I'll stick round another year and break him into the landward side of shipping and then, Skinner, d'ye know what I'm going to do then?”
“What?” Mr. Skinner asked dully.
“I'm going to learn to play golf,” said Cappy.