The horse tenders in the other holds were summoned and informed that for the present theNarcissuswould not be bombed. Quickly two of them, with Mike Murphy and Sam Daniels, donned the dungarees and caps of the prisoners and strapped on their belts containing the automatics in their holsters. In the interim Terence had descended to the collapsible boat bumping at the gangway and fended her off until Sam Daniels, the two cowboys and Mike Murphy joined him; whereupon Terence took one pair of oars, while Murphy handled the other, and the boat crept out from the steamer and headed directly for the submarine, which had been ratching backward and forward under a dead-slow bell, watching the towering black hulk of theNarcissusrolling idly. A light showed on the turret of the submarine, outlining vaguely the figures of half a dozen men on her small deck.
The disposition of Mike Murphy's forces was such that the chances of the enemy detecting the substitution of the boarding party before it should reach the submersible were reduced to a minimum. In the bow of the collapsible one of the cowboys sat, facing the stern; Terence and Mike also faced the stern, by reason of the fact that they were rowing; and Sam Daniels and the other cowboy, seated in the stern sheets, were under orders to turn and look back at theNarcissusas the boat came within the radius of the meager light from the submarine's turret. Thus they ran little risk of premature discovery.
“For,” as Cappy Ricks sagely reminded them just before they pulled away from theNarcissus, “the German is both cautious and cocksure. The capture of his bombing party has been effected without a sound; the commander saw our men leave the steamer in the boats; he sees theNarcissusnow not under command and wallowing; he figures that all is lovely and the goose honks high. Therefore, he will be off his guard, since his suspicions have not been roused. His deck is very dimly lighted by that single light on the turret, and he knows that light is sufficient to guide the boat party back to the submarine. There is no sea running to speak of; so it will not be necessary for him to turn his searchlight on you to light the way for you.
“Moreover, he will not care to use his searchlight, because it may guide a patrol boat to this spot, and Terence has very carefully turned out all the lights on the ship which might be visible from a distance, because that is precisely what that lieutenant would or should have done if we had given him time. And when you row toward that submarine, row like the devil, because that's the way the bombing party would row in their hurry to board the submarine and steam clear of the explosion. It is my guess that the instant you heave alongside you will be snagged with boat hooks by the men on her deck. In the excitement of making a quick get-away nobody will be looking into your faces, anyhow; they'll see your familiar dungaree suits and caps; some of them may even give you a hand to help you when you leap aboard. Do not despise such help; just extend your left hands and before you let go the enemy's right bend your guns—and you, Terry, your monkey wrench—over their heads. You'll have the deck in a pig's whisper! Then, Mike, the rest is up to you. I've made the ball; now you fire it.
“I take it the submarine will be in such a hurry to get away that all the men on her deck will reach down and snake the boat in; once out of danger, they'll plan on knocking that collapsible down and storing it away at their leisure. Tackle 'em while they're busy with the boat—provided you get aboard unsuspected. Terence, remember to shout the minute you go into action—and I'll give you fighting light.”
Following these instructions, Cappy had very solemnly shaken hands all round and departed for the bridge, where he removed the canvas covering from the searchlight, bent the reflector toward the submarine, and waited, with his nervous old finger on the switch.
In pursuance of Cappy Ricks' instructions, Mike Murphy and Terence Reardon rowed furiously toward the submarine—so furiously, indeed, that the harsh grating of their oars in the rowlocks apprised Captain Emil Bechtel of their approach some seconds before the boat was visible. At his brisk command the men on deck stepped down to the low pipe railing on the port side of the deck, prepared to snag the boat the instant she drew alongside. When he could hear the sound of the commander's voice, Mike Murphy chanced a quick look over his shoulder, noted the position of the submarine, and turned his head again.
“Four more strokes, Terry; then ship your oars,” he cautioned the engineer in a low voice.
At the fourth stroke Terence obediently shipped his oars; with a deft twist of one oar, Murphy straightened the boat and shot neatly in alongside the submarine, the deck of which was less than three feet above the water. As Cappy Ricks had anticipated, the men on that deck promptly snagged the boat at bow and stern with boat hooks—and on the instant Cappy Ricks' bully boys leaped for their prey.
As luck would have it, Terence P. Reardon was the only one offered a helping hand—and he did not despise it; neither did he forget Cappy's last instructions. With neatness and ample force he brought his monkey wrench down on the German's skull; and then to Cappy Ricks, waiting on the bridge of theNarcissus, came the ancient Irish battlecry ofFaugh-a-ballagh!For the benefit of those not versed in the ways of the fighting Celt, be it known thatFaugh-a-ballaghmeans Clear the Road. And history records but few instances when Irish soldiery have raised that cry and rushed without clearing a pathway.
The fight was too short and savage for description. Suffice it to say that not a shot was fired—the work was too close for that, for the surprise had been complete. Even before Cappy Ricks could focus the steamer's searchlight on the fracas, it was over. Terence P. Reardon got two in two strokes of his trusty monkey wrench; Sam Daniels and his two fellow-bronco-busters each laid open a German scalp with the long barrels of their forty-fives; and Michael J. Murphy, plain lunatic-crazy with rage, disdaining all but Nature's weapons, tied into the amazed Captain Emil Bechtel under the rules of the Longshoremen's Union—which is to state that Michael J. Murphy clinched Emil Bechtel, lifted him, set him down hard on his plump back, crawled him, knelt on his arms, and addressed him in these words:
“Hah! (A right jab to the face.) You would, would you? (Left jab to face.) You pig-iron polisher! (Bending the nose back forcibly with the heel of his fist.) When I get (smash) through with your (smash) head (smash) it'll be long (smash) before you'll block (smash) your hat again (smash) on the Samson post, you—”
“Out av me way, Michael, lad, till I get a kick at his slats!” crooned Terence P. Reardon, heaving alongside.
“You gossoon! Take care of the scuttle; don't let them close it down, or they'll submerge and drown us. Leave this lad to me, I tell you. He's the captain, and why shouldn't he be killed by one of his own rank?”
Thus rebuked, Terence curbed his blood-thirsty proclivities. Leaving his countryman to beat his devil's tattoo on the submarine commander, Terence leaped to the open scuttle just in time to bang another head as it appeared on a level with the deck.
“Let that be a lesson to you!” he called as the unconscious man slid back down the companion into the interior of the vessel.
Then he sat on the lid of the scuttle, poised his monkey wrench on high over the scuttle, and awaited developments, the while he tossed an order over his shoulder to Sam Daniels:
“Bring me the bum!”
“Which one?” Mr. Daniels queried.
“The German bum, av coorse,” Terence retorted waspishly.
“But all these bums are Germans—”
“Not that kind av a bum!” howled Terence. “I mean the bum in the boat.”
Thus enlightened, Sam brought a bomb from the boat and handed it to the engineer. In the interim Mike Murphy had polished off his man to his entire satisfaction and joined Terence at the scuttle, while one of the horse wranglers, a cool individual and a firm believer in safety first, collected the weapons from the fallen.
Mike Murphy approached the scuttle and bawled down it to the amazed and puzzled crew below. As a linguist Mike was no great shakes, particularly when called upon to juggle German; but he was a resolute fellow and not afraid to do his best at all times. Consequently his hail took the form of “Hey!Landsmann!”
Something told Terence Reardon that Michael was through; so he added his mite to the store and bellowed:
“Spreckels die deutsch,ye blackguards?”
Then both sat back to await developments. Presently a voice at the foot of the companion said:
“Hello dere! Vat iss?”
“Vat iss? Hell iss! Dot's vat! Listen to me, you Dutchy. I'm the skipper of that horse transport your commander tried to sink without warning, and I'm in command of the deck of this craft, with the scuttle open; and you can't submerge and wash me off, either. When I give the word I want you and your men to come up, one at a time and no crowding. And if you're not up five minutes after I order you up I'll not wait; I'll set a bomb in your turret, back off in the small boat and kill with revolvers any man that tries to come up and see where the fuse is burning in order to put it out. Do you surrender, or would you rather die?”
“Vait a minute und I find oud,” the German answered promptly.
It required five minutes for a council of war below decks; then the interpreter came to the foot of the companion and informed Mike Murphy that, considering the circumstances, they had decided to live. In the interim the skipper of theNarcissushad arrived, with re-enforcements, in the cruiser, and reported that his crew was getting back aboard the steamer as fast as possible and would have her under command again in a minute. At Murphy's order the unconscious Germans were put aboard the cruiser; later, when the remainder of the submersible's crew came up, one at a time, they were disarmed and lined up on the little deck; whereupon Michael J. Murphy addressed their spokesman thus:
“Listen—you! It would be just like you to have set a time bomb somewhere in this submarine to blow her up after you were all safely out of her. If you did you made a grave tactical error. You're not going to leave her for quite a while yet. You're going to sit quietly here on deck, under guard, while the steamer hooks on to this submarine and tows her; and if my prize crew is blown up, remember, you—”
The spokesman—he was the chief engineer, by the way—yelled “Ach, Gott!” and leaped for the scuttle. Mike Murphy followed him into the engine room in time to see him stamp out a long length of slow-burning fuse.
“Any more?” Murphy queried.
“Dot von vas sufficient, if it goes off,” the German answered simply.
“All right!” Mike Murphy replied. “I'll take a chance and so will you. You'll stay aboard and run those oil engines.”
Half an hour later with the submarine's crew safely under lock and key on theNarcissus,the big freighter continued on her course, followed by the captured submarine, with Michael J. Murphy in her turret and a quartermaster from theNarcissusat her helm. In the engine room her own engineer grudgingly explained to Terence P. Reardon the workings of an oil engine and the ramifications of the electric-light system—and during all of that period the deadly monkey wrench never left the port engineer's hand.
Sam Daniels and his comrades were once more back aboard theNarcissus,attending to the horses; and Cappy Ricks, his heart so filled with pride that it was like to burst, occupied the submarine's turret with the doughty Michael J. For an hour they discussed the marvelous coup until there was no angle of it left undiscussed; whereupon fell a silence, with Michael J.'s eyes fixed on the dark bulk ahead that marked theNarcissus, and Cappy's thoughts on what Matt Peasley and Mr. Skinner would say when they heard the glorious news.
For nearly an hour not a word passed between the pair.
Presently Cappy's regular breathing drew Murphy's attention to him. He had fallen asleep in his seat, his chin bent on his old breast, a little half-smile on his lips. And as Murphy looked at him pridefully Cappy spoke in his sleep:
“Holy sailor! How Mike Murphy can swear!”
Terence P. Reardon came to the foot of the little spiral staircase leading to the turret.
“Michael, me lad,” he announced, “the internal-combustion ile ingin' is the marine ingin' av the future. They're as simple as two an' two is four. Listen,avic!Does she not run like a twenty-four-jewel watch? An' this man that invinted thim was a Ger-r-man—more power to him! Faith, I'm thinkin' if the Ger-r-mans were as great in war as they are in peace 'twould need more nor the Irish to take the measure av thim!”
“Irish?” Mike Murphy answered irritably. “Terence, quit your bragging! God knows the Irish are great—”
“The greatest in the wide, wide wur-rld!” Terence declared, with all the egotism of his race.
“Whist, Terry! There's a little old Yankee man aboard; if you wake him up he'll call you a liar.”
“The darlin' ould fox!” Terry murmured affectionately, and went back to his engines.
The entire office force of the Blue Star Navigation Company and the Ricks Lumber & Logging Company had assembled in the general office to greet Cappy Ricks, Mike Murphy and Terence Reardon upon their return from Europe, and to hear at first hand the story of their wanderings and adventures. And when the wondrous tale had been told, and business was once more resumed, Matt Peasley, Mr. Skinner, Mike and Terence convened in Cappy Ricks' office for further discussion.
“We sent that half million dollars to New York to be transferred to the credit of the French Government when the bill of sale for that steamer should be deposited with the bank there,” Matt remarked presently. “What kind of a vessel did you buy, Cappy? What are her dimensions?”
“What kind of a ship did I buy?” Cappy piped. “Hum-m-m! A ship is good. I bought four; and—believe me!—they're no skiffs, either. All of them are big foreign-going steel tramps, with lots of speed and power.”
“Four for half a million dollars?” Matt Peasley cried unbelievingly.
“They would have cost anybody else a million and a half; but—er—well, you see, Matt, I had a stand-in with the right people. The four vessels I bought were all prizes of war—German merchantmen converted into commerce raiders, which had slipped through the cordon of British cruisers and got into the North Atlantic, where French cruisers overhauled them and brought them into port. They were all there and up for sale to the highest bidder when we got there with the horses and our captured submarine.
“I bid half a million for the lot, which is probably about half of what it cost to build them; and there was a Frenchman and an Englishman bidding against me. They each had me topped, and the vessels were knocked down to the Frenchman; but when he found I was a competitor—that I was Monsieur le Capitaine Ricks—that's what they called me, Matt—in command of the party that captured a German submarine, intact and without the loss of a single man on either side-say, Matt, the stuff was all off!
“He and the Englishman went into a conference; and the result was, the Frenchman ran out on his bid and forfeited his ten-per-cent certified check. That left the Englishman the next highest bidder; and he ran out on his bid and left the ships to me! Then the Englishman shook hands with me and the Frenchman kissed me. I thought the least I could do was to make good to them on the earnest money they had forfeited, and they accepted it. Then the President of France heard about it and came down to Brest to see me; and he kissed me, too, and gave me the Officers' Cross of the Legion of Honor. I didn't tell him I was just a private in the ranks. Oh, no! Nothing doing. I was introduced as Monsieur le Capitaine Ricks—and that settled it. I was an officer, for all my courtesy title; and I took the Cross, because I was prouder than Punch to have it.
“Then the Chamber of Deputies met and voted the Frenchman and the Englishman back their forfeited earnest money; and they gave me back my checks, and I wrote new ones for the same amount and split the swag fifty-fifty between the two nations for the care of their wounded. Then I gave a dinner aboard the submarine, and President Poincare was present. I presented the submarine, with the compliments of the Blue Star Navigation Company, to the Republic of France, and the President accepted, all hands went out on deck and we cracked a bottle of champagne over that submersible's bows and rechristened her.”
“What name?” Matt and Skinner chorused.
“The Shamrock—out of compliment to Mike and Terence.”
“Fine!” Matt cried. “Then what?”
“Nothing, Matt. Our business was finished and I was anxious to get back on the job; so we engaged skippers and crews to bring our four freighters to New York, and came home.
“Better step lively, boy, and dig up some business for them! Mike will give you the data on their tonnage.”
Matt drew Mike Murphy aside.
“Tell me, Mike,” he whispered, “did the old man get soused at that dinner aboard theShamrock?”
“Look here, Matt,” Murphy answered; “what Monsieur le Capitaine Ricks does outside of office hours is none of my business—or yours, either. And if you don't like that answer help yourself to a new port captain. I'm not telling everything I know, Matt.”
On the morning of April 3, 1917, Cappy Ricks came down to his office, spread a newspaper on his desk and carefully cut from it the war address of President Wilson to Congress, made the night before. This clipping the old gentleman folded carefully; he placed it in an envelope, sealed it and wrote across the face of the envelope: “Property of Alden Matthew Peasley.” Then he summoned Mr. Skinner, president of the Ricks Lumber & Logging Company.
“Skinner, my dear boy,” he began, “have you read the President's Message to Congress?”
“I have,” replied Skinner.
“I guess that President of ours isn't some tabasco, eh? By the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, he's just naturally read Bill Hohenzollern out of the party. Bully for Woodrow!”
Mr. Skinner's calm cold features refused to thaw, however, under the heat of his employer's enthusiasm, seeing which Cappy slid out to the edge of his chair and gazed contemplatively at Skinner over the rims of his spectacles. “Hum-m-m!” he said. The very tempo of that throat-clearing should have warned Mr. Skinner that he was treading on thin ice, but with his usual complacence he ignored the storm signal, for his mind was upon private, not public affairs.
“I'm offered the old barkentineC. D. Bryantfor a cargo of redwood to Sydney,” he began. “The freight rate is two hundred and twenty shillings per thousand feet, but theBryantis so old and rotten I can't get any insurance on the cargo if I ship by her. I'm just wondering if—”
“Haramph-h-h! Ahem-m-m!”
“—it's worth while taking a chance to move that foreign order.”
“Skinner!” Cappy almost shouted.
Mr. Skinner looked at him, startled.
“How can you think and talk of old barkentines and non-insurable foreign cargoes at this crisis in our country's history?” the autocrat of the numerous Ricks corporations shrilled furiously. “Dad burn your picture, Skinner, are you human? Don't you ever get a thrill from reading a document like this?”—and he tapped the envelope containing the press clipping. “What kind of juice runs in your arteries, anyhow? Red blood or buttermilk? Is your soul so dog-goned dead, crushed under the weight of dollars, that you have failed to realize this document is destined to go down in history side by side with Lincoln's Gettysburg speech? I'll bet you don't know the Gettysburg speech. Bet you never heard of it!”
“Oh, nonsense, Mr. Ricks,” Skinner retorted suavely. “Pray do not excite yourself. Suppose war does impend? Is that any reason why I should neglect business?”
“Of course it is, you gibbering jackdaw! I feel like setting fire to the building, just to celebrate. Can't you step into my office on a day like this and discuss the country and her affairs for five minutes, just to prove you're an American citizen? Can't you rejoice with me over these lofty, noble sentiments—”
“Words, words, empty words,” warned Mr. Skinner, always a reactionary Republican.
“Skinner,” said Cappy with deadly calm, “one more disloyal peep out of you and I shall have no alternative save to request your resignation. I think you're a pacifist at heart, anyhow!”
“Huh,” snorted Skinner. “You've changed your tune, haven't you? Who trotted up and down California Street last fall, soliciting campaign contributions for the Republican nominee from the lumber and shipping interests? Wasn't it Alden P. Ricks? Who thought the country was going to wrack and ruin—”
“That was last fall,” Cappy interrupted shrilly. “We live and learn—that is, some of us do,” he added significantly. “Never mind about my politics last fall; just remember I haven't any this spring. I'm an American citizen, and by the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, some German or Germans will find it out before I'm gathered to the bosom of Abraham. I have a right to disapprove of my President if I feel like it, but I'll be shot if I'll let anybody else pick on him.” And Cappy shook his head emphatically several times like a squinch-owl.
“Oh, I'm for him, now that we're committed to this war,” Skinner declared in an effort to soothe the old man.
“Sure! We're locking the stable door after the horse has been stolen. If we'd been for him when theLusitaniawas sunk instead of being divided in our opinions and swayed in our judgment by a lot of hysterical pacifists and German propagandists we'd have been into the war long ago and saved millions of human lives; we'd have had the war won.” He sighed.
“What a prime lot of jackasses we Americans are!” he continued. “We talk of liberty and demand license; we prate of democracy and we're a nation of snobs!”
“You wanted to see me about something,” Skinner reminded him.
“Ah, yes; I was forgetting. This envelope, Skinner, contains the President's address. Take it and put it in the vault, and when my grandson is twelve years old give that press clipping to his mother and tell her I said she was to read it to the boy and make him learn it by heart. I won't be on hand to do the Americanizing of that youngster myself, and most likely Matt Peasley will be too busy to think much about it, so I'm taking no chances. You rile me to beat the band sometimes, Skinner, but I'll say this much in your favor: I have never known you to forget anything.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Skinner took the envelope and departed, and Cappy rang for a stenographer.
“Take a telegram, fast day message,” he barked: “'His Excellency, The President, White House, Washington, D. C. Dear Mister President: I did not vote for you last fall, but your address of last night makes me ashamed that I did not. I am controlling owner of the Blue Star Navigation Company, operating a fleet of fifty vessels of various kinds, twelve of which are foreign-going steam freighters. Am also controlling owner of the Ricks Lumber & Logging Company, cutting a million feet of lumber daily. Everything I control, every dollar I possess, is at the service of my country. God bless you, sir! Alden P. Ricks.'
“That sounds sloppy, but it's the way I feel,” Cappy declared. “When a man has a big heart-breaking job to do and a lot of Philistines are knocking him, maybe it helps him to retain his faith in humankind to have some fellow grow sincerely sloppy and slip a telegraphic cheer in with the hoots. Besides, if I didn't let off steam today I'd swell up and bust myself all over the office—”
The door opened and Mr. Terence P. Reardon, port engineer of the Blue Star Navigation Company, entered. Mr. Reardon's right eye was in deep mourning and at no very remote period something—presumably a fist—had shifted his nose slightly to starboard; indeed, even as he entered Cappy's office a globule of the rich red Reardon blood trembled in each of the port engineer's nostrils. His knuckles were slightly skinned and the light of battle blazed in his black eyes.
“Terence, my dear, dear fellow,” murmured the horrified Cappy, “you look as if you had been fed into a concrete mixer. Have you been fighting?”
“Well, sor,” Mr. Reardon replied in his deep Kerry brogue, “ye might call it that for lack of somethin' more expressive. I've just fired the chief engineer o' theTillicum.”
“Mr. Denicke? Why, Terry, he's a first-rate engineer. I'm amazed. He was with us ten years before you entered the employ—worked up from oiler; in fact, I must have an explanation of your action in this case, Terence.”
“He called the President a nut. I fired him for that. Then he said the Kaiser was the greatest single force for civilization that ever was, an' wit' that I gave him a lift under the lug an' we wint at it. He's in the Harbor Receivin' Hospital this minute, an' I'm here to tell ye, sor, wit' all respect, that if ye don't like the way I've treated that Dutchman ye can get yerself a new port ingineer, for I'll quit, an' that's somethin' I'm not wishful to do.”
Quite calmly Cappy Ricks pressed the buzzer on his desk. The cashier of the Blue Star Navigation Company entered. “Son,” said Cappy, “hereafter, when making out Mr. Reardon's pay check, tack onto it twenty-five dollars extra each month. That is all.”
“Thank you, sor,” murmured Mr. Reardon, quite overcome.
“Get out!” cried Cappy. “You're a vision of sudden death. Go wash yourself.”
As Mr. Reardon took his departure Cappy sighed. “If Skinner only had a set of works like that port engineer!” he murmured. “If he only had!”
It will be recalled that war with Germany was declared on Good Friday. Bright and early on Saturday morning Cappy Ricks arrived at his office and immediately summoned Mr. Skinner.
“Skinner, my dear boy,” he chirped, “'the tumult and the shouting dies. We're down to brass tacks—at last; and now is time for all good men and true to come to the aid of the party. I'm too old to bear arms, and when I was young enough bantam battalions weren't fashionable; nevertheless, I am enlisting for the war, and I start in this morning to do my part. I won't wear any uniform, but believe me, Skinner, I'm the little corporal who's going to mobilize the Blue Star Navigation Company and the Ricks Lumber & Logging Company, together with all and sundry of their subsidiary corporations. I'm starting with you, Skinner. Are you figuring on enlisting?”
“Certainly not, sir. I'm forty-three years old, married—”
“No excuses necessary, Skinner. Even if you had planned to enlist I would have forbidden the banns. You'd make a bird of a paymaster or quartermaster, but as an enlisted man—well, the other bad soldier boys would toss you in a blanket. So I'll assign you to a job in civil life. Skinner, what do you know about aeroplanes?”
“Absolutely nothing, except that they fly.”
“Then learn something! Skinner, the ideal wood for aeroplane construction is clear Pacific Coast spruce. I've been reading up on the subject. Inasmuch as this war must be won in the air, you can imagine the number of aeroplanes the country must turn out in the next eighteen months. Stu-pen-dous, Skinner, simply stu-pen-dous! Try to visualize the wastage alone in the aeroplanes on the battle fronts; consider the thousands of seaplanes that will scour the Atlantic on the lookout for submarines, and then ask yourself, Skinner, what the devil those overworked army and navy officers in Washington are going to do about laying in a supply of clear Pacific Coast spruce before these pirates of lumbermen get next and boost the price clear out of sight. Skinner, what is clear spruce worth at the Northern mills today?”
“About fifty-five dollars per thousand, sir. For years clear spruce never rose in price beyond thirty-five dollars, but purchases by the British Government have shot the price up during the past year.”
“Exactly! And purchases by the United States Government will shoot the price up to a hundred and fifty dollars a thousand if you and I don't get busy. Now then, Skinner, listen to me! We have a couple of thousand acres of wonderful spruce timber adjacent to our fir holdings at Port Hadlock, Washington. Wire the mill manager to swamp in a logging railroad to that spruce timber, put in logging camps and concentrate on spruce. The clear stock we'll sell to the Government, and the lower grades will be snapped up by the box factories.”
Mr. Skinner nodded his comprehension of the order and Cappy continued: “Wire our mill managers at Astoria, Oregon and Eureka, California, to log out all the spruce they come across among the fir. As for you, Skinner, accept no more orders for clear spruce from our regular customers, and go easy on accepting orders for any kind of lumber from our Eastern customers. All those car shipments must be made up of kiln-dried stock, and we'll want most of the space in our dry kilns to cook this clear green spruce for Uncle Sam, because he's going to want it in a hurry, and if he can't get it when he wants it—why, chaos has come again and all hell's let loose!”
“What price do you propose charging the Government for this clear spruce?” the cautious Skinner queried. He owned a little stock in the Ricks Lumber & Logging Company and already he had a vision of an extra dividend.
“Absolute cost plus ten per cent,” replied Cappy promptly. “No excess profits at the expense of the country at war, Skinner.”
He gazed upon Skinner contemplatively for several seconds. “And mind you don't figure the cost too liberally,” he warned him.
“Very well, sir. Is that all?”
“Not by a jugful! You scatter round the market and buy up every stick of clear two-inch spruce sawed and on hand at the Northern mills. Buy at the market, but do not hesitate to go five dollars over the market if necessary to get the stock. Then place orders for all the clear spruce the mills can cut and deliver within the next six months, and we'll have the market hog tied.
“Got to do it, Skinner. I tell you there isn't a whole lot of difference between a lumberman and a manufacturer or a food speculator. When he gets the public foul, doesn't the public pay through the nose? Haven't we been doing it ourselves in the matter of ship freights? But we must reform, Skinner, we must reform and get down to a cooperative basis, no matter how great the agony. On this spruce deal alone, for instance, we'll save the Government a couple of million dollars. See if we don't.”
“We're entitled to a liberal profit,” Mr. Skinner protested. “If—”
“No ifs, buts or ands! Obey orders! About the time we have the market on clear spruce well cornered the lumbermen's boys will be in the army and the lumbermen themselves will have begun to realize that they must sacrifice something for their country. And once we're sane we'll be able to work hand in glove with the Government. The United States of America has been money-mad for a long time, Skinner, but this war is going to spiritualize us and show us that there's a lot more in life than dollar-chasing. Hop to your job, P. D. Q., Skinner, my boy; and as you pass out send Captain Matt Peasley in to me.”
Matt Peasley came smilingly into his father-in-law's office. “Well, Cappy,” he hailed the old gentleman, “I understand you've come out of your retirement.”
“You're damned whistling, I have!” Cappy rejoined. “Something doing, boy, something for everybody! Have they told you about it in the general office?”
“Told me about what?”
“About the President asking me if I would cooperate with him to the extent of serving as the Pacific Coast member of the Shipping Board? I guess that isn't some honor, eh? How the devil he ever dug up an old fossil like me is a mystery. I wired him, advising that he appoint a younger man, but he replied that he knew I was the livest shipping man in the country and an American through and through. So, of course, Matt, I have accepted.”
“Your forty odd years' experience will be of inestimable value to the country in this emergency,” Matt declared heartily. “I'm proud of you.”
“Thank you, son. Now then, Matt, to business! The Government's going to need every one of our ships that can run foreign.” Matt nodded. “Very well, then,” Cappy continued; “as fast as their present charters lapse, decline to recharter except for single trips. We must go on a war basis and be prepared to turn our ships over to the Government on short notice. I'll be too busy to keep my eye on the details of the Blue Star's transactions with the Government, so I'll give you a straight tip now—I want no gouging. Remember that, Matthew, my son.”
The following day Cappy had a call from Sam Daniels.
“Hello, Sam,” Cappy greeted his lanky ranch manager. “What brings you up to town? Not that I'm not glad to see you, for I was on the point of writing you on some matters that had occurred to me.”
“I've come up to resign my job,” Daniels declared humbly.
“Resign the best job you've ever had, Sam!” Cappy was amazed.
“To resign the best job I ever will have, Mr. Ricks.”
Mr. Daniels hitched his chair close to his employer's desk. “Boss,” he said, “I'm awful sorry, but I'm goin' soldiering.”
Cappy Ricks sprang to his feet with an oath. “You're not!” he shouted. “I won't hear of it. You're too valuable a man to go into the army and get yourself killed—particularly since you can do your share at home. Why, I was just going to write you and give you your orders for patriotic duty. You go back to the ranch, Sam, and get busy. Plant spuds, wheat, oats, barley, corn—plant all you can of it. Raise heifers, sheep, hogs, cows, bulls, calves, turkeys—everything that can be eaten. Raise horses—and in particular, raise mules.”
“I'd rather raise hell with a bunch of Germans,” Sam Daniels declared feelingly.
“Your job is to help produce cereals and canned beef for the hell-raisers,” Cappy declared. “The army will want horses for the artillery and mules for the transport. Why, this war may last for years. Sam, you infernal scoundrel, you get back on the farm. You're forty-five years old and you've been shot and whittled enough in your day to last you the remainder of your natural life. Let the young fellows do the fighting abroad, while you and I and the other hasbeens do it at home.”
“I'd a heap rather lay off in the brush somewheres an' snipe Germans,” Mr. Daniels pleaded. “On the level, boss, if they'll give me a Springfield rifle with telescopic sights I'll guarantee to sicken anythin' I get a fair sight on at a thousand yards.”
“In-fer-nal scoundrel! How dare you argue with me! You get back on your job!”
“Boss, I'm going into the army,” Daniels announced sadly, but nevertheless firmly. “I'm givin' you a month's notice so you can get a man to take my place.”
Cappy surrendered. “All right, Sam. If you survive, your job will be waiting for you when you get back. However, you needn't give me any notice. I'll have another man in charge of the ranch to-morrow, and you can enlist today.”
“And you're not sore at me, Mr. Ricks?”
“Sam, I'm proud of you. Wish I were young enough to go it with you. Are you in a hurry to get to France?”
“Certainly am.”
“Then join the marines. They always go first. Good-bye, Sam. Good luck to you and God bless you! Draw your wages as you go out and tell the cashier I said to give you an extra month's wages for tobacco money.”
Mr. Daniels withdrew, visibly filled with emotion. Ten minutes later Cappy Ricks, watching at his office window, saw Mr. Daniels cross the street and enter the marines' recruiting office. Immediately Cappy called that recruiting office on the telephone and asked for the doctor.
“Look here, doctor!” he said. “In a few minutes a lanky, battle scarred rancher is coming in to be examined. I don't want him to enlist. He's my ranch manager and worth more to the country in his job than at the Front. You turn him down physically, doctor, and I'll guarantee to send you five fine recruits instead of that old fossil. His name is Sam Daniels, and I'm Alden P. Ricks, of the Blue Star Navigation Company, across the street.”
“We need an automobile to send our recruiting sergeant out through the state,” the wary medico replied. “Now, if you could loan us one—”
“I'll have my own car and chauffeur over in half an hour, and you keep him as long as you need him,” Cappy piped. “Only tell Sam Daniels he's faltering on the brink of the grave and send him back to me.”
An hour later Mr. Daniels slouched into Cappy Ricks' office. “Well, Private Daniels,” the old man saluted him, “you look downcast. Has something slipped?”
“I should say it has. The doc over to the recruitin' office says I got a heart murmur from smoking cigarettes, which it's a cinch the excitement o' battle brings on death from heart failure, an' then folks would say I died o' fright.”
“He's crazy Sam! Tell him to go chase himself.”
“I guess he's right, Mr. Ricks. He 'most cried to let me go, an' was for waivin' the heart murmur, but it seems I got a floatin' kidney, an' flat feet. Gosh, I never knew I had flat feet, but then I've rid horses all my life an' ain't never hiked none to speak of.”
He was silent several minutes, studying the pattern of the office carpet. Presently he looked up. “Is my successor at the ranch already appointed?” he queried.
“Go back to the fields and the kind-faced cows, Samuel,” quoth Cappy gently. “Hurry, or you'll miss the train.”
Sam Daniels fled, and hard on his heels came Mrs. Michael J. Murphy,neeMiss Keenan. It will be recalled that prior to her happy alliance with Michael J. Murphy, Mrs. Murphy had been Cappy Ricks' favorite stenographer. He received her cordially.
“Now then, what's gone wrong, my dear?” he demanded. “Have you and Mike been making a hash of your married life that you should come in here on the verge of tears?”
Mrs. Murphy blinked away a tear or two and sat down. “Some of the boys in the office will be enlisting, Mr. Ricks,” she faltered. “I wonder if there might be a vacancy for me—if I might not have my old position back?”
Cappy Ricks was genuinely concerned. “Why, Mike won't let you earn your living,” he declared. “Why do you make such an extraordinary request?”
“For Mike's sake, Mr. Ricks. Of late he has been very nervous and distrait; scarcely touches his meals, and thinks, talks and dreams of war. Last night he dreamed he was back in the navy and shouted out an order that woke him up.”
“Come to think of it, I believe Mike did spend several years in the navy prior to going into mercantile marine,” Cappy observed. “So he has the war fever again, eh? Wants to go back?”
“Ever since he received a letter from the Navy League. They're searching out all the old navy men—gun pointers particularly—and asking them to come back to help train the young fellows just coming into the service. Mike was a gun pointer—”
“Well, what in thunder is he hesitating for?” Cappy piped wrathfully.
“About me. Mike's married to me, you know, and he worries about what will happen to me if he should be killed. He knows I'll be broken-hearted if he enlists—he's afraid I'll not let him go. But if I got my job back and was self-supporting, Mike's conscience would be—”
“Do you want him to go?”
“No, Mr. Ricks, but he must go. I do not want to make a coward or a slacker out of Mike. I've got to do my part, you know.”
“My dear,” said Cappy feelingly, “you're a noble woman. Go back and attend to your little home; Mike may go whenever he's ready and his salary with the Blue Star will go on while he is in the navy; his job will be waiting for him when he comes back. Good old Mike! How dreadful a crime to hobble that Irishman with a first-class fight in sight.”
When Mrs. Mike had left the office Cappy stiffened out suddenly in his chair, clenched his fists and closed his eyes, as if in pain. And presently between the wrinkled old lids two tears crept forth. Poor Cappy! He was finding it very, very hard to be old and little and out of the fight, for in every war in which the United States had engaged representatives of the tribe of Ricks had gladly offered their bodies for the supreme sacrifice, and as Cappy's active mind ran down the long and bloody list his heart swelled with anguish in the knowledge that he was doomed to play an inglorious part in the war with Germany. Mr. Skinner coming in with a letter to Cappy, observed the old man's emotion and asked him if he was ill.
“Yes, Skinner, I am,” he replied. “I'm sick at heart. God has given me everything I ever wanted except six big strapping sons. Just think, Skinner, what a glorious honor would be mine if I had six fine boys to give to my country.” His old lips trembled. “And you could bank on the Ricks boys,” he added. “My boys would never wait to be drafted. No, sir-ree! When they heard the call they'd answer, like their ancestors.
“Skinner, what has come over our boys of this generation? Why don't they volunteer? Why does the President have to beg for men? Has the soul of the idealist been corroded by a life of ease? Did the spirit of adventure die with our forefathers? Is it any harder to die just because war has become more terrible—more deadly? Oh, Skinner, Skinner! To be young and tall and strong and whirled in the cycle of vast events—to play a man's part in a glorious undertaking—to feel that I have enriched the world with my efforts, however humble, or with my body revitalized the soil made fallow by a ravishing monster. I feel, Skinner—I feel so much and can do so little.”
Nevertheless, he did do something that very afternoon. One after the other he examined all the young men in his employ, discovered which of them could afford the luxury of enlisting and then asked them bluntly whether they were going to enlist. Three of them said they were, and Cappy promised each of them a month's salary the day he should report to him in uniform. Nine others appeared to be uncertain of their duty, so Cappy fired them all, to the great distress of Mr. Skinner and Matt Peasley. Cappy, however, turned a deaf ear to their remonstrances.
“A man who won't fight for his country is no good,” he declared; “and I won't keep a no-good son of a slacker on my pay roll. Get married men or men who have been rejected for military service to take the places of these bums who haven't courage enough even to try to enlist.”