“There was I, waiting at the church,Waiting at the church—”
“I was right!” Cappy shrilled. “My mode of procedure was without a flaw.”
“Absolutely! The operation was a success, but the patient died.”
“But a feller just has to haggle!” Cappy wailed. He was almost on the verge of tears. “It's the basic principle of all trading. Why, I've made my everlasting fortune by haggling. Drat your picture, don't you know that the very pillars of financial success rest on counter-propositions?”
“Listen, relative, listen: I haven't said a word to you, have I?” Matt replied.
“No; but you looked it, and I'll not be looked at.”
“All right, Cappy, I'll not look. But I can't help thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“That it's about time you quit talking about retiring—and retired!”
With this Parthian shot Matt himself retired, leaving Cappy to shiver and bow his head on his breast; in which position he remained motionless for fully an hour.
“I guess the boy's right,” he soliloquized finally. “I think I'd better retire, after pulling that kind of a deal twice in the same place. The pace is getting too swift for me, I think; I can't keep up... Well, I guess they've got the goods on me this time. Matt was certainly on the job twice, and I blocked him both times ... Oh, Lord! I'll never hear the last of this... By the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, I've lost my punch! Matt didn't say so; but he thinks it. And I don't blame him a bit.”
The door of Cappy's office opened and again the youth stood in the entrance. “Mr. Redell is calling; there's a gentleman with him,” he announced.
“Tell 'em I'm busier'n a cranberry merchant,” Cappy snarled. “And unless you're figuring on hunting a new job, my son, don't you come in here again today.”
The youth retired. However, he knew from experience that Cappy Ricks never discharged anybody save for insubordination or rank incompetence; hence, he did not hesitate to disobey the old gentleman's edict.
“Mr. Redell says his business is very important,” he announced, presenting himself once more at the door.
“All right! No rest for the weary. Show them in.”
J. Augustus Redell entered, accompanied by no less a personage than the British Consul. Cappy greeted them without enthusiasm and bade them be seated.
“Well,” J. Augustus Redell announced cheerily, “It's plain to be seen that Little Sunshine hasn't been round this office recently.”
Cappy grunted.
“What's gone wrong, Cappy?”
“Everything! Been going wrong for years and I never realized it until this afternoon. Ah, Gus, my dear young friend, how I envy you your youth, your capacity to think, your golden dreams, your boundless energy, your ability to make two-dollar bills grow where one-dollar bills grew before, thus making an apparently barren prospect as verdant as a meadow in spring. But make the most of your opportunity, young feller! The day will come to you, as it has come to me, when everything you do will be done twenty minutes too late; when every dollar you make will be subject to a cash discount of one hundred per cent; when every competitor you held cheap will suddenly develop the luck of the devil, the brains of a Demosthenes, and the courage of a hog going to war.”
“I should judge that you have recently suffered a great bereavement.”
“I have, Augustus, I have. Through my indecision I have just lost a bank roll a greyhound couldn't have jumped over. Suppose it was a paper profit? I grieve just the same.”
“Forget it, Cappy! Life is real, life is earnest, and you have a bank roll of real profits a giraffe couldn't reach the top of.”
“Oh, it isn't the money, Gus. Money is only a vulgar symbol of my bereavement. The trouble is—I've lost my punch! I can't think, Gus; I can't act promptly. I'm out of touch with my times. I remind myself of nothing so much as the old rooster that suddenly discovered he had been elected to furnish the dinner the following Sunday. His hens cackled and called to him that they had found some worms, but he wouldn't pay any attention to them; just leaned up against the wire netting in the poultry yard and said to himself: 'Oh, hell! What's the use? Today an egg—tomorrow a feather duster!'”
“Don't be pessimistic, Cappy. Don't! It doesn't become you, and I don't believe a word you're telling me. You're still the old he-fox of the world; and I've come to you for help on a deal that's going to mean a whole lot of money to both of us if we can only put it through.”
“I'm sorry, Gus, but I'm not interested. As a matter of fact, I've retired.”
“Nonsense! Nonsense! I know where there's a beautiful ten-thousand-ton, net register, steel steamer to be bought for three hundred thousand dollars—”
Cappy Ricks threw out an arm and pressed his hand against Redell's mouth.
“Sh-h-h!” he warned. “Sh-h-h! Hush!”
With the agility of a man half his age Cappy ran to the door, bolted it on the inside and returned to his desk. He was rubbing his hands and his eyes were aglow with interest.
“What are you sh-h-h-ing about?” Redell demanded.
“Matt Peasley and that cowardly Skinner. Not a word of this to them, Gus! Not—a—whisper!” And he winked one eye and twisted up the corner of his mouth knowingly. Mr. Redell nodded his promise and Cappy went on: “Now Gus, my dear young friend, start in at the beginning and tell me everything. I assume, of course, that this is real business and not another of your jokes on the old man. Word of honor, Gus?”
“Word of honor, Cappy.”
“All right; blaze away! Come, come! What have you got to offer?”
“I have a condition and I offer you a half interest in it if you can suggest a plan to circumvent His Royal Highness, Kaiser Wilhelm—”
“Hum-m-m! Enough!” Cappy interrupted, and turned to the British Consul: “This is an international affair, eh? See if I don't state the proposition in a nutshell—if I may be pardoned the bromide. This steamer is a German, and the proposition is to get her under the American flag so firmly that she'll stay there; then, I suppose, we're to charter her to the British Government, or one of Britain's allies—Russia, for instance.”
J. Augustus Redell and the British Consul exchanged admiring winks.
“What did I tell you, Mister Consul?” Redell declared triumphantly. “Mr. Ricks knows the story before we have told it. And yet he's complaining about the loss of his punch!”
Cappy looked slightly self-conscious; it was plain the compliment pleased him.
“Well, Gus, my boy,” he answered, “I have lost my punch, though at that I'm not exactly a pork-and-beaner. Hum-m-m! Ahem! Harumph-h-h! This must be a hard order to fill. Mister Consul, when Gus Redell has to come to me for help. That son of a gun can move faster and go through more obstacles than quicksilver. Gus, what's gone wrong with you? Have you lost your punch too? And at your age?”
“Looks like it, Cappy. I've thought and thought until I'm desperate, and not an idea worth while has presented itself. That's why I've come to you.”
“Well, I don't guarantee a cure, my boy. But I'll say this much: If you and I can't put this thing over, then it just isn't put-overable. Fire away, Gus!”
“Have you ever heard of the steamerBavarian?”
“Of course! She belongs to Adolph Koenitz and flies the German flag. Since the war started she's been interned down in Mission Bay.”
Redell nodded.
“Adolph Koenitz never became an American citizen, despite the fact that he had lived in San Francisco twenty years and operated three steamers out of this port. He was a reserve officer in the German Navy; and when the war broke out he interned his ships, placed his entire estate in his wife's name and reported for duty. He perished in the Battle of Jutland, both his boys were killed at Verdun, and now his widow would like to sell theBavarianand get some cash. She had a large income from an estate in Germany, but the war cut that off.
“Also, it appears that Koenitz was rather heavily involved, and the expense of maintaining those interned steamers, with their German crews aboard, has his widow badly worried; in fact, she has reached the point where she finds it necessary to sell one of the steamers in order to hang on to the other two. She has tried to raise a mortgage on theBavarian, but nobody cares to loan money on an interned German steamer.”
“Naturally,” Cappy replied sarcastically. “And I'm amazed that you should consider me boob enough to consider seriously buying the same steamer outright! Gus, I'd have about as much use for that steamer as I would have for a tail. Even if I should buy her now, and not use her until the war is over, I should be risking my money; for the German Government, if you remember, issued an order in 1915 forbidding its subjects to sell their interned ships without the consent of the said government. And, even if Mrs. Koenitz can procure the Kaiser's consent, I fail to see the wisdom of tying up three hundred thousand dollars in an idle investment.”
“Ah, but under those circumstances she wouldn't be an idle investment.”
“Yes, she would, my boy. Great Britain issued an Order in Council in 1914 notifying all neutral nations that she would not sanction the transfer of registry of any German vessel. A few daring devils took a chance—and what happened? The British Navy overhauled the ships at sea and took them into a British port where a British prize court confiscated them. There is the case of theMazatlan, for instance. She was German owned and flew the German flag; her owner put her under the Mexican flag, and subsequently she was sold at a bargain to one of our neighbors, who put her under American registry. Do you know where theMazatlanis now? Well, I'll tell you: She's freighting war munitions for Johnny Bull—and our optimistic neighbor isn't collecting the freight money either.”
“Quite true, Mr. Ricks; quite true—in ordinary cases,” the Consul told him smilingly.
“By the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet! I smell a mouse. Hum-m-m! That simplifies matters. We-l-l! If you are in position, Mister Consul, to give me your word of honor as a gentleman and an officer of your king that the British Navy will turn its blind side to theBavarianwhen she puts to sea, I'll buy theBavarianso fast it'll make your head swim. In return for this favor, of course, I am to charter the ship at the going rates to—”
“Our ally, the Russian Government, Mr. Ricks. And you have my word of honor, which is all I can give you; for a deal like this, as you know, cannot be made in writing. I have had the matter up with the Admiralty, however, and permission has been granted me to give the verbal assurance of my government.”
“I'll make a finger bet with your government, Mister Consul. As for Kaiser Bill's consent to the transfer—heraus mit 'em!We'll get along without that. Wilhelm doesn't cut much ice with me these days and I'm willing to wager the price of theBavarianthat such ice as he does cut will blame soon melt. Gus, you say Mrs. Koenitz wants to sell?”
“Yes.”
“And she doesn't care who buys?”
“Not a particle! She's sore on the Kaiser; it's been thumbs down on Wilhelm ever since Adolph and the boys lost the number of their mess. She says to me: 'Herr Riddle, dot Kaiser orders war like I order beer!' However, there's an 'if' to the transfer. While we know the British Navy will not bother us should we buy the steamer, still enthusiastic Britishers all over the world will have their eyes on theBavarianand clamor for her capture. Great Britain cannot publicly—or, at least, obviously—make any exceptions to her Order in Council, and we'll have to mess up that steamer's title and nativity to save John Bull's social standing. We must make a bluff at deceiving him. If we can show some sort of legal transfer to another flag J. B. can play blindman's buff with dignity and honor; otherwise nix!”
Cappy Ricks' eyes sought the ceiling.
“What have I done to deserve this?” he demanded of an invisible Presence. “Why am I afflicted thus? Job had his boils; but you and I, Augustus, are covered with a financial rash, bleeding at every pore, and with no relief in sight.”
“I told you this was a tough one, Cappy. I've pondered the situation until my brain is addled like a last year's nest egg, and finally I've come to you as a last resort. If you can't cook up an airtight scheme, then there is no help; and I'm going to forget theBavarianand attend to some business more profitable and less debilitating.”
“There must be an out, Gus. It's too good a thing to abandon. Suppose you and the Consul go away and give me time to concentrate my thoughts on this problem. It's a holy terror; but—Well, I've seen dogs almost as sick as this one cured.”
“God bless you!” Mr. Redell murmured fervently. “Consul, let us depart and leave Mr. Ricks to himself. Call me up, Cappy, when you see a ray of light. Two heads are better than one, you know.”
When his visitors had gone Cappy Ricks gave orders that he was not to be disturbed on any pretext whatever. Then he locked himself in, swung his legs to the top of his desk, slid low in his chair until he rested on his spine, bowed his head on his breast and closed his eyes. The battle was on.
One hour later J. Augustus Redell entered breathlessly in response to a telephonic invitation from Cappy.
“Gus,” the latter began, “am I right in assuming that you possess a reasonable amount of influence with that hair-trigger partner of yours, Live Wire Luiz?” Redell nodded. “And is Luiz absolutely trustworthy? Will he stay put and keep his mouth closed?”
“He is my partner, Cappy. He's mercurial, but a gentleman. I'd trust him with my life, and I always trust him with my bank roll. He requires no watching.”
“Good! Gus, send Live Wire Luiz down to Guaymas and have him incorporate the North and South American Steamship Company there, under the extremely flexible and evershifting laws of the Republic of Mexico. Luiz is a Peruvian and speaks Spanish, and knows the Mexican temperament. He can easily procure three Mexicans to act as a dummy board of directors; his own name, of course, for obvious reasons, must never appear in connection with this company. A thousand dollars ought to cover this Mexican expense.”
“Consider that point attended to, Cappy.”
“Fine! Now then, when this corporate vehicle is in running order and has opened an office in Guaymas, Live Wire Luiz will write your company, The West Coast Trading Company, saying that his company has been referred to you by some mutual friends in Guaymas. Of course Luiz doesn't sign this letter. It is signed by the North and South American Steamship Company, per the dummy secretary or president. The letter goes on to say that the latter company is in the market for a steamer, the general specifications of which, singularly enough, fit theBavarian.The vessel is to be used for transporting troops up and down the west coast of Mexico and for freighting munitions from Japan; and in a delicate way it might be hinted that the de facto Mexican Government is the real buyer. A commission of five per cent is offered you for buying the vessel for them, said commission to be split fifty-fifty with the North and South American Steamship Company; this being the Mexican way of doing business, as you know.”
“Consider that matter attended to also. I'll write the letter myself before Luiz starts for Guaymas, so I'll be certain the job will be done exactly right.”
“As soon as you receive this letter you get busy and wire the North and South American Steamship Company that you have just the vessel they want, price three hundred thousand dollars. Live Wire Luiz will then cause a reply to that telegram to be sent, advising you that his clients would not balk at paying half a million! That, of course, is hint enough for you. Right away you see the old Mexican graft sticking out, and you say to yourself, 'Why not?' And you do! You reply to that telegram, saying you erred when naming the price in your first telegram; that it is five hundred thousand instead of three. Then you come down to me and I hand you three hundred thousand dollars in currency; for in such a transaction as this, checks, with their indorsements, provide a trail that may prove embarrassing. You take that money and deposit it in escrow in any local bank against a bill of sale of theBavarianfrom Mrs. Koenitz to the North and South American Steamship Company, of Guaymas, Mexico. Before doing so, however, have Mrs. Koenitz place the vessel under Mexican registry. She can do that through the Mexican Consul for the de facto government; and when the bill of sale is turned over to you, record it promptly with the Mexican Consul. Later you will record it in Mexico.
“The vessel is now the property of the North and South American Steamship Company; and the North and South American Steamship Company is the property of Cappy Ricks and the West Coast Trading Company, per Senor Felipe Luiz Almeida. But we must never admit this. To have the North and South American Steamship Company transfer the vessel to us would be very coarse work indeed; so we must avoid that.”
“How?”
“I'll get to that presently. The steamer is now in our possession, and you will already have notified her German skipper and crew to hunt a new residence. You will then put an American skipper in charge and ship American engineers and a crew of parrakeets; and on the very day the sale is consummated, just before the customhouse closes, have the skipper clear the vessel for Guaymas and put to sea that night. Since she carries no cargo the collector of the port will not stop you; the risk of going to sea is all our own—if we care to take it.
“The next day the newspaper boys will be hot on the trail. An interned German merchantman has suddenly transferred to Mexican registry and put to sea! Now! Inquiry at the customhouse and at the Mexican consulate shows that the vessel has been sold, and the trail leads straight to the office of the West Coast Trading Company. You are interviewed—and say nothing; and that day, when I appear on 'Change, these baffled journalists drive me into a corner and ask me what I think about it. And I'll tell them it's just another case of the lowly Mexican peon being hornswoggled by the foxy Americano. The Mexicans wanted a ship and asked the American to buy one for them. He did—only he forgot to tell them she was a German. She was such a good buy they snapped her up without asking questions, though in all probability the poor devils had no knowledge of Kaiser Wilhelm's edict that no German ships shall be sold without the consent of the German Government. I will say that it looks to me as if the ancient rule ofcaveat emptorapplied, and that the Mexicans are stung and have no comeback. Then, again, it may be a shrewd German trick to put something over.
“Well, they make a snorting story out of what I give them; the frau's friends read it and think she's done something smart. Nobody feels sorry for a Mexican. Next morning you come out with a blast of righteous indignation and admit that you cannot or will not deny that the vessel was sold to parties representing the de facto Mexican Government. You deny, however, that you sold them a pig in a poke; and the papers print a copy of your letter to the North and South American Steamship Company specifically advising them that the vessel was a German and liable to prove an embarrassment. This, of course, clears you, and the blame for the graft is placed where it belongs—on the shoulders of the North and South American Steamship Company, which has deliberately stung the de facto government!”
“Cappy,” said J. Augustus Redell admiringly, “you're immense!”
“I accept the nomination. Upon her arrival in Guaymas theBavarian'sname is changed toLa Golondrina, orSobre las Olas, orManana, orPoco Tiempo—whatever's right. I think we may safely gamble that she will arrive in Guaymas in the light of what the British Consul told us; and, in view of her departure unannounced, no British warship on the West Coast can get so far north as Guaymas in time to intercept her.
“Well, having changed her name, she picks up a general cargo and comes back to San Francisco, where she goes on dry dock and is cleaned and painted, has her gear overhauled, fills up with fuel oil and stores, and—but that's enough. Now comes the blow-off.
“Strange to relate, you haven't received a cent of that five-per-cent commission due you from the North and South American Steamship Company for buying theBavarianfor them. The issue is in dispute. They claim you are not entitled to any commission, because you stung them with a German vessel; and you claim you told them she was a German, but that they needed her so badly they would take a chance. Also, the fact that she went to sea that time in such a hurry, and forgot to pay for her fuel oil and stores, looks rather suspicious; so, when the vessel comes off dry dock, with about ten thousand dollars' worth of bills against her, you decide to protect your claim for the commission—and, by the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, Gus, you libel her! The news breaks into the papers, and next day every creditor of the ship files a libel on her, also, to protect his claim. Gus, she'll have so many plasters on her she'll look like a German coming home from the war.”
J. Augustus Redell leaped from his chair and picked little Cappy Ricks up in his arms and hugged him.
“Oh, Cappy! Cappy!” he yelled. “You're the shadow of a rock in a weary land—a cup of cool water in the suburbs of hell!”
“Are you game?” Cappy gurgled.
“Does a cat eat liver? Cappy, you've solved the problem! Naturally the North and South American Steamship Company does not directly or indirectly make any attempt to lift these libels and get the vessel to sea. Why? I'll tell you—or, rather, I'll tell the newspaper boys and they'll tell everybody. It will appear that as soon as the Mexican Consul here got an inkling of the apparent plan of the North and South American Steamship Company, of Guaymas, to sting Don Venustiano Carranza by slipping him a steamer with a clouded title, he must have wired Don Venustiano to round up the directors of the said company and give them theley fuga. Fortunately for these culprits, however, they got next in time to get out from under. Mounting swift steeds, the entire board of directors fled north and east, never pausing until they had joined Pancho Villa; and we learn from some Border gossips that all three subsequently were killed in action. But, before leaving Guaymas, they left their tangled steamship affairs in the hands of their attorney—”
“Nothing doing, Gus! They left their tangled steamship affairs in the hands of my attorney, and they gave him an absolute, ironclad, airtight power of attorney to sell the ship, receive and receipt for all money due the company, and so on, and so on, ad libitum, ad infinitum; said power of attorney being nonrevocable for five years.”
“Great stuff! In due course the libelants sue in the United States District Court; your attorney appears for the defendants and confesses judgment, but pleads for a ten-day stay of execution until he can raise a mortgage on the vessel. But, strange to relate, the ten-day stay expires and the judgments against the steamer are not paid; so the judge of the United States District Court orders the steamer sold at public auction on the floor of the Merchants' Exchange to the highest bidder, to satisfy the claims of the creditors. Thirty days later the United States Marshal conducts the sale, and a gentleman named Cappy Ricks buys her in. The United States Marshal gives the said Ricks a bill of sale for her, which the said Ricks thereupon records in the United States Customhouse, and—”
“Und Hoch der Kaiser! Und Hoch derJohn J. Bull! We've finally got that clear American title we've been looking for. It makes no difference what the nationality of a vessel is; the minute she enters the territorial waters of the United States of America she is amenable to the laws of the United States of America, one of which reads thusly: 'Thou shalt pay thy bills; and if thou dost not, thenpoco tiempothou shalt be made to pay them, even unto the seizure and sale of thy ship.' And with the purchase of that ship, under an order of sale issued by the United States District Court, she becomes a United States ship; we register her as such; and the United States simply has to stand back of the bill of sale it gave us. Germany knows that; England knows it; Austria knows it; and from the jackstaff of the lateBavarian, now renamed theAlden M. Peasley, in honor of my first grandson, there floats—”
J. Augustus Redell raised his index finger, enjoining silence:
“Now then! One, two, three! Down, left, up!”
“O-ho, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,What so-ho pro-houdly we hailed at the twilight's lastgleaming?”
Cappy Ricks sprang to attention. Presently, through the partition, his cracked old voice reached Mr. Skinner:
“Then conquer we must, when our cause is so just;And this be our motto: 'May we nev-er go bust!'”
“What's doing here?” Mr. Skinner demanded, banging at the door, which was locked.
“Go way back and sit down!” Cappy shrilled. “I'll show you and Matt Peasley where to head in, yet—see if I don't!”
Cappy Ricks and J. Augustus Redell arrived at the Merchants' Exchange promptly at one o'clock on the date of the sale of the S. S.General Carranza,as theBavarianwas now called. Just inside the door they paused and looked at each other.
“Whe-e-e-ew!” murmured Cappy Ricks. “All the shipping men in the world are here to bid on our property, Gus.”
Mr. Redell whistled softly. “This,” he said, “will be some auction!”
Cappy chuckled.
“There is only one thing that a shipping man in this country has more respect for than an Order in Council—and that is an Order in the United States District Court!”
“Naturally. It's backed up by our army and navy.”
“By the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, somebody's sporting blood is going to be tested today; and something tells, me, Augustus, my dear young friend, that it's going to be Matt Peasley's.”
“What makes you think so, Cappy?”
Again Cappy chuckled.
“Having used German methods to bring about this auction sale,” he confessed, “I concluded to steal a little more of this Teutonic stuff; so I established a system of espionage in Skinner's office and another in Matt Peasley's. Gus, I got a lot of low-down information on those two young pups; they're trying to slip something over on the old dog.”
“Well, they'll never teach him any new tricks, Cappy.”
“You know it! I observe that, as usual, Jim Searles will conduct the auction. He's climbing up on the block now, and, by the Toenails of Moses, Matt Peasley is on the job! Look, Gus! You can see his black head sticking up out of the heart of the riot.”
As Cappy and Redell joined the crowd Jim Searles, by acclamation the auctioneer of the Port of San Francisco, rapped smartly with his little gavel, and a tense silence settled over the crowd.
“This,” Mr. Searles announced, “will be a fight to a finish, winner take all. In accordance with an order of the United States District Court I am about to sell, at public auction, to the highest bidder, the Mexican SteamshipGeneral Carranza, ex-German SteamshipBavarian, to satisfy the following judgments: Mr. J. Augustus Redell—”
“Cut it out!” roared Matt Peasley. “We've all read the list of creditors, and you're only gumming up the game. Come down to business Jim.”
“Good boy, Peasley! Sure! Cut it out, Jim! Get busy!” A dozen voices seconded Captain Matt Peasley's motion and Jim Searles rapped for order.
“How much am I offered?” he cried.
“One million dollars!” roared Matt Peasley.
On the fringe of the eager crowd Cappy Ricks leaned up against his friend Redell and commenced to laugh.
“The young scoundrel!” he chortled. “He never said a word to me about this auction; he was afraid I'd butt in and block his purchase; so, for his impudence, I'll teach him a lesson he'll never forget. Bid, Gus! Bet 'em as high as a hound's back.”
“Captain Matt Peasley, representing the Blue Star Navigation Company, bids one million dollars. Chicken feed! Won't some real sport please tilt the ante?” Jim Searles pleaded. “Don't waste my time, gentlemen. It's valuable. Let's get this thing over and go back to our offices.”
“One million five hundred thousand!” called J. Augustus Redell.
“I called for a sport and drew a piker,” Jim Searles retorted. “Mr. J. Augustus Redell, of the West Coast Trading Company, bids a million and a half.”
Young Dalton Mann, representing the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, raised his hand and snapped his fingers at the auctioneer.
“And a hundred thousand!” he shouted.
“And a hundred thousand!” Matt Peasley retorted.
“And fifty thousand!” Mann flung back at him.
Matt Peasley eyed his antagonist belligerently.
“That's doing very well for a young fellow,” Searles complimented the last bidder. “Skipper Peasley, are you going to let this landlubber outgame you? He has bid a million and three-quarters. Think of the present high freight rates and speak up, or remain forever silent.”
The bidding had so suddenly and by such prodigious bounds reached the elimination point that every piker present was afraid to open his mouth in the presence of these plungers. Matt Peasley licked his lips and glanced round rather helplessly. He knew he had about reached the limit of his bidding, but he suspected that Mann had reached his also.
“And ten thousand!” he shouted desperately.
“Cheap stuff! Cheap stuff!” the crowd jeered good-naturedly.
Cappy Ricks nudged J. Augustus Redell as Mann waved his hand in token of surrender. “One million seven hundred and sixty thousand I am offered,” the auctioneer intoned. “Any further bids?” He waited a full minute; then resorted to three minutes of cajolery, but in vain. There were no more bids.
Jim Searles raised his hammer.
“Going—once!” he called—and waited. “Going—twice!” Another pause. “Going—”
“Two million dollars!” cried J. Augustus Redell; and a sigh went up from the excited onlookers.
“Ah! Mr. Redell is a sport, after all! Two million, flat!” Searles looked down on Matt Peasley. “Die, dog, or eat the meat ax!” he warned the unhappy young man.
“Let him have her,” Matt growled; and, very red of face, he commenced to shoulder his way through the crowd.
“Beat it, Cappy; he's coming!” Redell warned the president emeritus.
Cappy Ricks, dodging round the flank of the crowd, fled through the side entrance of the Merchants' Exchange; and he was tranquilly smoking a cigar in his private office when Matt Peasley dropped in on him an hour later. Cappy eyed him coldly.
“Is Skinner back from luncheon?” he demanded. Matt nodded. “Tell him to come in here. I want to see him,” Cappy continued ominously. “And you might stick round yourself.”
Mr. Skinner made his appearance.
{Illustration: “Two million dollars'” cried J Augustus Redell.}
“Close the door,” Cappy commanded.
Mr. Skinner looked a little startled and surprised, but promptly closed the door.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Ricks?” he queried.
Cappy Ricks edged forward until he was seated on the extreme edge of his chair. Then he rested a hand on each knee, bent his head, and glared at the unhappy Skinner over the rims of his glasses. After thirty seconds of this scrutiny he turned to his son-in-law.
“Well,” he said, “I hear you've been attending an auction sale and making a star-spangled monkey of yourself bidding a million seven hundred and sixty thousand dollars on that Mexican steamer. Matt, have you taken leave of your senses?”
“No, sir—not quite; but Gus Redell has. He bought her in for two million dollars. Of course he was acting for somebody else, because every cent he has is working overtime in the West Coast Trading Company.”
“Oh!” Cappy murmured. “Then you didn't get her, after all?”
“No, sir! So perhaps you'd better not holler until you're hit.” Matt sighed. “By Neptune,” he declared, “I'd give a cooky to know the name of the crazy man who paid two million dollars for that steamer!”
“Behold the lunatic, Matt! Grandpa Ricks, in his second childhood! Gus Redell was bidding for me, sonny.”
Matt Peasley sat down rather limply and stared at the president emeritus.
“Cappy,” he said presently, “you sent a boy to do a man's work. I had the boat bought for a million seven hundred and sixty thousand! For heaven's sake, why didn't you tell me you wanted her? And I would have laid off. For the love of heaven, why did you go bidding against me?”
“Why didn't you tell me you wanted her, you big simp?” Cappy retorted. “You never said a word to me; and naturally Redell thought you were acting for somebody else. He had orders from me to get her and damn the cost—and he fulfilled his orders.”
“A comedy of errors, truly!” Mr. Skinner observed witheringly.
Matt Peasley raised his huge arms and clenched his great fists in agony.
“Oh, Cappy! Cappy!” he pleaded. “Won't you please retire? You're just raising hell with the organization!”
“All right, Matt; I'll retire. But, before I do, I'm going to give Skinner a piece of my mind. Skinner, what the devil do you mean by going up to the Marine National Bank and borrowing a million dollars on the credit of the Ricks Lumber Company? I admit I have given you entire charge of the lumber end, and you were quite within your rights when you negotiated the loan and signed the note as president; but how did it happen that you didn't consult with the old man, if only as a matter of common courtesy?”
“I-I-that is, I-well, I didn't mean to be discourteous, Mr. Ricks. Oh, I wouldn't have you think, sir—”
“No; you'd have me be a dummy if you could. Why, you almost put the skids under me; because, when I went up to the Marine National to make a little personal loan in a spirit of preparedness, I discovered that the loan you had been given on my assets had jazzed my personal credit all to glory! I used to be able to borrow a million dollars on my bare note; but I'll be shot if they didn't make me dig up a lot of collateral this time! Skinner, I wouldn't have thought that of you. After trusting you as I have done for a quarter of a century, to find you giving me the double-cross just about breaks my heart. Great Godfrey, Skinner, how could you be so false to me? I expect that sort of thing from Matt—those one loves the best always swat one; but from you—Skinner, I don't know what prevents me from demanding your resignation here and now, unless it be because of your previous splendid character and loyal service.”
“Oh, Mr. Ricks, Mr. Ricks!” Poor Skinner held up his hands appealingly and commenced to weep. “Please do not think ill of me. I swear—”
“You loaned the Ricks Lumber Logging Company's million dollars to Matt Peasley to help buy that steamer for the Blue Star Navigation Company; and he, the son of a pirate, went to work and borrowed it from you, well knowing he had no business to do so. What are you paying the Marine National for that money?”
“Five per cent,” Skinner sniffled, for his heart was broken.
“What are you soaking the Blue Star Navigation Company for it?”
“Six,” Skinner confessed miserably.
“That's all right, Skinner, my boy. Cheer up! I forgive you. That little profit of one per cent saves your bacon, boy. I guess there's some good left in you still; and I'm happy to have this evidence that, though I own both companies, you have not forgotten you are responsible for the profit-and-loss account of one of them, and Matt Peasley for the other. You did quite right to claim that one per cent jerk from Matt. Business is business!”
“Yes, you bet it is!” Matt Peasley struck in. “And I want you to lay off on Skinner, because what he did was done in fear and trembling, and under duress. We were both afraid you'd block the purchase; so we agreed to keep our plans secret from you, because—Well, somehow I did want that bully big boat the very worst way.”
“And that's exactly the way you set about getting her, Matthew. However, you're young—you don't know any better; so I forgive you. Of course I realized you wanted, that steamer, boy. I knew your heart was set on seeing our house flag floating from her mainstruck; so I—Well, I just thought I'd get her for you, to sort of square myself for those two bonehead plays I pulled earlier in the year.”
“Oh, but you shouldn't have paid two millions for her, Cappy! Business is one thing and sentiment is another.”
“Why, I didn't pay any such price for her! Originally I bought her, as a German, for three hundred thousand dollars; in addition to that I've spent about ten thousand dollars improving her, and maybe five thousand more fussing up the trail of my operations so no smart secret-service operative could come round and hang something on me.” He reached into his coat pocket and drew forth the United States Marshal's bill of sale. “Here, sonny,” he announced, “is your Uncle Sam's certificate of title. Hustle up to the customhouse and get it recorded; then make out a bill of sale for a one-third interest to the West Coast Trading Company and record that also. Then change her name toAlden M. Peasley, in honor of your first-born, and put her under these two flags.”
He jerked open a drawer in the desk and brought forth a bright new edition of Old Glory, followed by the familiar white muslin burgee with the blue star.
“Skinner!”
“Yes, Mr. Ricks.”
“The United States Marshal has paid all the debts of theAlden M. Peasley, and this afternoon he'll send his check for the proceeds of the sale still remaining in his hands to my lawyer, who holds a most ungodly power of attorney from that dummy Guaymas corporation Live Wire Luiz organized to buy the ship for us. Our attorney will cash that check and send the cash down to you. Please bank it to my credit and take up that note I gave the Marine National; then get the securities I hocked and tuck them back in my safe-deposit vault. As for the interest at five per cent, which the Ricks Lumber & Logging Company will have to pay on that million you borrowed to help Matt Peasley hornswoggle father, you just charge that to your personal account as a penance for your sins. As for the six per cent you pay the Ricks Lumber & Logging Company for the money loaned your Blue Star Navigation Company, Matt Peasley, just charge that to your personal account as a penance for your sins.”
Both culprits nodded dazedly.
“Now,” Cappy continued, “I'll tell you something else: TheAlden M. Peasleybelongs to the West Coast Trading Company and Alden P. Ricks; they own one-third for bringing the deal to my attention and furnishing some labor, and I own two-thirds, or the lion's share, for doing a lion's work—to wit, putting up the cash and promoting the deal to a clean title. Consequently, though you two boys own a nice little block of stock in the Blue Star Navigation Company, you don't own a red cent in theAlden M. Peasley, because she doesn't belong to the Blue Star Navigation Company, but to the president emeritus thereof. However, as I am about to retire for keeps this time, I'll tell you what I purpose doing with my two-thirds of theAlden M. Peasley: Skinner, my dear boy, I kidded you into tears. Bless you, boy, it broke your heart when you thought your old boss figured you'd quit being Faithful Fido, didn't it? Skinner, loyalty like yours is very, very precious; and your affection is—er—Skinner, you human icicle, you can't bluff me! I'm on to you, young feller! Matt, you prepare a deed of gift for one-half of my two-thirds interest to Skinner, and take the other half for yourself; and when theAlden M. Peasleyhas earned what I put into her, credit my account with it. After that, you and Skinner and Gus Redell and Live Wire Luiz can collect the dividends.”
“Oh, Mr. Ricks! This is too much,” Skinner began.
“Tut, tut, sir! Not a peep out of you, sir! How dare you argue with me? Now just one word more before you fellers go: The next time you boys go bidding on a ship at auction, take a leaf out of Cappy Ricks' book and bid against yourself! You can always scare the other fellows off that way; the sky is the limit—and you're bound to get your money back. So you shouldIsh ka bibble.
“Now you two young freshies go back to your desks and try to learn humility. Thus endeth the first lesson, my children.”
Matt Peasley came close to Cappy and put his big arm round the little old man.
“Cappy,” he whispered, “please don't retire!”
“All right, son,” Cappy answered; “but get that infernal cry-baby, Skinner, out of my office. He's breaking my heart.”
If J. Augustus Redell had been content to sue for peace following his deal with Cappy in Australian wheat, all would have been well for that young man. Alas! As we have already stated, he was young—and there is an old saying to the effect that youth must be served. J. Augustus Redell, like Oliver Twist, desired more. His triumph over Cappy in the wheat deal merely whetted his desire for more of the Ricks blood, and in the end the ingenious rascal evolved a plan for making Cappy the laughing stock of the Bilgewater Club for a month of Sundays.