When Captain the Hon. Desmond O'Hara, of H.M.S. Panther, boarded the steamer Narcissus via the Jacob's ladder Mr. Reardon hove overside at his command, he paused a moment, balanced on the ship's rail, and stared.
“My word!” he said, and leaped to the deck, to make room for a pink-and-white middy. The pink-and-white one stared and said “My aunt!” Then he, too, leaped to the deck, and a stocky cockney blue-jacket poked his nose over the rail.
“Damn my eyes!” said this individual. “'Ere's a bloomin' mess!”
“Who is that person?” Captain Desmond O'Hara demanded, pointing to the semiconscious Mr. Henckel, who was moaning and saying things in his mother tongue.
“That,” said Mr. Reardon with a familiar wink, “was a fine, decent German until I operated on him!”
“So I observed. And who might you be?”
“Me name is Terence P. Reardon, an' I'm the chief engineer av the United Shtates steamerNarcissus, av San Francisco.”
“Ah! An Irish-American, eh?”
Mr. Reardon looked down at the deck, smiled a cunning little smile and looked up at Captain O'Hara. “Well, sor,” he declared, “I had me hyphen wit' me whin I shipped; as late as yestherd'y afthernoon 'twas in good worrkin' ordher; but what wit' the exertion av chasin' our Gerrman crew round the decks, faith I've lost me hyphen, an' I'm thinkin' the skipper's lost his too. That's him forninst ye. For the prisent he's in dhrydock awaitin' repairs, which leaves me in command av the ship. And since he's in no condition to go to his shtate-room an' unlock the ship's safe, an' sorra wan av me knows the combination, the divil a look will ye have at our papers. I'll save time an' throuble for us all be tellin' ye now that we've ten t'ousand tons av soft coal undher deck, that we cleared from Norfolk, Virginia, for Manila or Batavia, Pernambuco for ordhers, an' that we're a couple av t'ousand miles off our course. So confiscate the ship an' be damned to ye! Only I'm hopin' ye'll not be above takin' a bit av advice from wan who knows. There's a Gerrman fleet not far off, an' if ye shtop to monkey wit' us, faith ye may live to regret it—an' ye may not.”
Captain the Hon. Desmond O'Hara smiled sweetly. “Divil a fear,” he said, in no way cast down. “We met the beggars off the Falklands yesterday and sunk them all but the Dresden. She slipped away from us in the dark, making for the mainland, and we were looking for her when we saw your searchlight cutting up such queer didos, so the Panther dropped behind to investigate. Had it not been for your searchlight we would have missed you.”
“An' be the same token a little dead Englishman signalled ye.” Mr. Reardon gave another hitch to his dungarees. “Sor,” he said doggedly, “I never t'ought I'd live to see the day I'd want to cheer a British victh'ry—but I do.” He glanced down at his right hand and shook his head. “Englishmen that ye are,” he continued, “I'll not offer ye a hand like that—much as I want to shake hands wit' ye.”
“Faith, don't let that worry you, Mr. Reardon. I'm not an Englishman.”
“In the divil's name, you're not an—an—”
“I'm an Irishman! My name is Desmond O'Hara.”
Mr. Reardon was fully aware that here was a grand specimen of the kind of Irish he had been taught to despise—the Irish that take the king's shilling, the gentlemen Irish that lead the king's cockneys into battle. And yet, strange to say, no thought of that entered his head now. He stepped up to Captain O'Hara, looked round cautiously as if expecting to be overheard, winked knowingly and whispered, as he jerked a significant thumb toward the unhappy Mr. Henckel: “Sure 'tis the likes av us that can take the measure av the likes av thim.”
“It is,” replied Captain O'Hara, and reached for Terry Reardon's awful hand. “It is!”
Together they lifted Michael J. Murphy into a boson's chair, the jackies unslung a cargo derrick, Mr. Reardon went to the winch, and the skipper was hoisted overside into thePanther'sboat and taken aboard the warship for medical attention. Just before Mr. Reardon hoisted him he drew the chief's ear down to his lips.
“About von Staden,” he whispered. “I thought I wanted to see him hung. Legally he's a pirate; but, Terence, he was raised wrong; you know, Terence—Deutschland ueber Alles. These Dutch devils thought it was all right to steal our ship—national necessity, you know. Let von Staden out of the mate's store-room and tell him the English have us—that his fleet is gone. Then turn your back on him, Terence.”
Mr. Reardon followed orders. “Captain Murphy ordhered me to let ye out,” he explained to the supercargo, “an' towld me to turrn me back on ye.”
“Please thank him for me,” von Staden replied gently. “I scarcely expected such kindness at his hands. You may turn your back now, Mr. Reardon.”
So Mr. Reardon turned his back, and, despite the rush of the British jackies to stop him, Herr August Carl von Staden reached the rail. “Deutschland ueber Alles!” he shouted defiantly—and jumped. He did not come up.
Captain the Hon. Desmond O'Hara removed his cap. “They die so infernally well,” he said presently, “one hates to fight them—individually. Yesterday theNuernbergfell to us. We outranged her, and when she was out of action and sinking, with her men swimming and drowning all round her, thePantherwas stripped of life preservers in two minutes. Some of my lads went overboard to help the Boche.”
Mr. Reardon remembered he had wrapped waste round the head of his monkey wrench and curtailed his indicated horse-power when tapping individuals; yet, when he fought them in bulk, with what savage joy had he struck down Mr. Uhl, a poor, inoffensive devil and the victim of a false ideal of national honor! Mr. Reardon was quite sure he despised Englishmen; yet the tears came to his eyes when the jackies carried poor little Riggins away from the searchlight, and he prayed for eternal rest for the soul of his late assistants, for he had learned in a night, as he fought with tooth and fist and monkey wrench, what those who fight with tongue and typewriter will never learn—that racial and religious animosities are just a pitiful human bugaboo—in bulk. Only that valiant minority that sheds its blood for the heartless majority can ever know this great truth—and the pity of it—that warriors never hate each other.
They are too generous for that.
Capt. Matt Peasley, with his heart in his throat, called up the British consul at San Francisco. Cappy Ricks, looking very pale and unhappy, sagged in his chair, while Mr. Skinner stood by, gnawing his nails and looking as if he would relish being kicked from one end of California Street to the other.
“Hullo!” Matt Peasley began. Cappy Ricks shuddered and closed his eyes. “Is this the British consul's office?... This is Captain Peasley, of the Blue Star Navigation Company... Yes... About our steamerNarcissus... You say the consul is on his way down to our office... Thank you... Goodbye.”
Cappy Ricks sighed like an old air-compressor. “I hope I live till he gets here,” he declared feebly. “Deliberate race, the British. No pep. Never get anywhere in a hurry.”
As if to give the lie to Cappy's criticisms, the British consul was admitted at that moment.
“Gentlemen,” he announced as the heart-broken trio gathered round him, “I have some very grave news for you.” His voice was vaguely reminiscent of that of the foreman in a quarry who calls upon a lady to inform her that her husband has just been caught in a premature blast and that the boys will be up with the pieces directly. “Your steamerNarcissus, loaded with ten thousand tons of coal, has been captured a hundred miles north-east of the Falkland Islands by His Majesty's cruiserPanther. In view of your vessel's clearance—”
A low moan broke from Cappy Ricks.
“Tightwad!” he reviled. “Old Alden P. Tightwad, the prince of misers! He thought he'd add a couple of ten-dollar bills to his roll, so he encouraged his skipper to hire a lot of interned Germans to work his ships in neutral trade! He was penny-wise and pound-foolish, so he cut out the wireless to save a miserable hundred and forty dollars a month. Bids are invited for the privilege of killing the damned old fool—Skinner! What are you looking at?”
“N-n-nothing!” stammered Mr. Skinner.
“I won't be looked at that way, Skinner. I have my faults, I know—”
“Ssshh!” Matt Peasley interrupted.
“And I won't be 'sshh-ed' at either. I lost the ship. I admit it. I O.K.'d the charter, and Murphy did his best to save her for us and couldn't. I'm the goat, but if it busts me I'll reimburse you two boys for every cent you have lost through my carelessness—”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Ricks,” the consul interrupted. “Pray permit me to proceed. The circumstances attending this case are so very unusual—”
“My dear Mister British Consul, I shall not argue the matter with you. You're too bally deliberate, and, besides, what's the use? The ship is gone. Let her go. We'll build another twice as big. Of course I could give you an excuse, but if I did you'd think I was old Nick Carter come to life. We'll just have to take it up through our State Department, present our alibi, and try to win her back in the prize court.”
“She will never be sent to a prize court, Mr. Ricks. It doesn't require a prize court to decide the case of the steamerNarcissus. The evidence is too overwhelming. There could not possibly be a reversal of the decision of our admiral.”
Mr. Skinner sat down suddenly to keep from falling down. The consul continued: “The commander of thePanther, Captain Desmond O'Hara—by the way, an old schoolmate of mine—has sent me a long private report on the affair; by wireless, of course, and in code. It appears that in Pernambuco harbor your German crew overpowered the captain—”
“What?” cried Cappy, Matt and Skinner in chorus. “You admit that?”
“We do, Mr. Ricks. And last night your chief engineer, Mr. Terence Reardon, with the aid of the steward, one Riggins—a British subject and unfortunately killed in the affray—and Captain Murphy overpowered the German crew—”
“Oh, Mr. Ricks!” gasped Skinner.
“Oh, Matt!” shrilled Cappy Ricks.
“Oh, Cappy!” yelled Matt Peasley.
“Oh, nonsense,” laughed the British consul. “They stole her back, gentlemen, and when Captain O'Hara found her rolling helplessly and boarded her, she was a shambles. Dead men tell no tales, Mr. Ricks—yet it was impossible for any fair-minded man to doubt the testimony of the dead men aboard yourNarcissus! Her killed, wounded and prisoners formed a perfect alibi. In the meantime, Mr. Reardon and Captain Murphy are aboard the Panther, receiving medical attention, and will be returned to duty in a few weeks; theNarcissusis proceeding to meet the other ships of our fleet. She will coal them at sea.”
“Then you've confiscated her cargo?” Matt Peasley demanded.
“We should worry about the cargo if they give us back our vessel,” Cappy Ricks declared happily. “We haven't received our freight money, of course, but by the time I get through with the charterers they'll pay the freight and ask no questions about the coal.”
“We confiscated it, Mr. Ricks,” the British consul continued, “for the reason that it was German coal. The supercargo who boarded the vessel at Pernambuco told your captain his people had paid cash for it to the charterers. But we're going to give you back your vessel because we haven't any moral right to keep her, since her owners have committed no breach of international law. The supercargo left fifteen thousand dollars behind him when he jumped overboard, but Captain O'Hara declined to confiscate that. At Captain Murphy's suggestion it will be forwarded to the widow of the man Riggins. Captain O'Hara especially requested that I call upon you and inform you that you have two of the finest Irishmen in the world to thank for your ship.”
“Thank you, Mister Consul. By the way, can you reach Captain O'Hara by wireless? If you can, I should be glad to pay for a message if you will send it.”
“I shall be delighted indeed.”
“Then tell him the Blue Star Navigation Company thanks him for the courtesy of his message, but that it does not agree with his statement that we have two Irishmen to thank for our ship. We think we have three! I know the Irish. The scoundrels never go back on each other in a fight.”
The consul laughed.
“By the way,” he said, as he took up his hat preparatory to leaving, “your ship is now equipped with wireless—a fine, powerful plant such as they use in the German Navy. The supercargo brought it aboard at Pernambuco.”
Matt Peasley, the Yankee, came to life at that. “Has that been confiscated, too?” he queried.
“No, captain. However, we have confiscated that German crew of yours—”
“Hallelujah!” yelled Cappy Ricks.
“—and loaned you a crew of British seamen from the trampSurrey Maid. TheScharnhorsttorpedoed her off the coast of Chile, and we found her crew on board one of the German transports when we captured them after the fleet was destroyed. You're all fixed up, from skipper to cabin boy—”
“Wireless operator, too?” Matt Peasley cried.
The consul nodded. “He's got a steady job,” the youthful president declared, and turned to Cappy Ricks for confirmation of this edict. But Cappy, the pious old codger, had bowed his head on his breast and they heard him mutter:
“O Lord, I thank Thee! All unworthy as I am, Lord, thou loadest me with favors—including a wireless plant, free gratis!”
Long after the British consul had departed Cappy Ricks sat alone in his office, dozing. Presently he roused and rang for Mr. Skinner.
“Skinner,” he said, “Matt reports that the late Riggins made an allotment of his wages to his wife when he shipped aboard theNarcissus?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Riggins's wages hereafter shall constitute a charge against theNarcissuswhile Mrs. Riggins lives and while the Blue Star Navigation Company can afford to give up seventy dollars every month. Attend to it, Skinner. Another thing, Skinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We ought to do something for Murphy and Reardon. Now then, Skinner, you've never had a chance to be a sport heretofore, but you're a stockholder in the Blue Star Navigation Company now, and as such I feel that I should not use my position, as owner of a controlling interest in the stock of the company, to give away the property of the company in an arbitrary fashion. So I'm going to leave it up to you, Skinner, to suggest what we shall do for them. I believe you will agree with me that we should do something very handsome by those two boys.”
“Quite so, sir, quite so. Well, to start off with, Mr. Ricks, I think we ought to pay their hospital bills, if any. Then I think we ought to give each of them a handsome gold watch, suitably engraved and with a small blue star—sapphires, you know—set in the front of the case.”
“You feel that would about fill the bill, eh, Skinner?”
“Well, next Christmas I think we ought to give them each a month's salary.”
“Hum! You do?”
“Yes, sir. I think that would be a very delicate thing to do.”
Cappy sighed. Poor Skinner! Victim of the saving habit! Decent devil—didn't mean to be small, but just couldn't help it. A bush-leaguer—Skinner. Never meant for big company—
“In addition—” Skinner began.
“Yes, Skinner, my boy. Go on, go on, old horse. Now then, in addition—”
“It seems like the wildest extravagance, Mr. Ricks, but those men have fought for their ship and I—remember, Mr. Ricks, this is only a suggestion—I think it would be a very—er—tactful thing to do to—er—”
“It'll choke him before he gets it out,” Cappy soliloquized. Aloud he said: “Go on, Skinner, my dear boy. Don't be afraid.”
“At a time like this, when freights are so good and vessel property pays so well, it seems to me—that is, if you and Matt have no objection—that we ought to give Mike and Terence a—er—a little piece of theNarcissus—the ship—er—they love—say—er—a—ten-thousand-dollar interest—each—”
“God bless you, Skinner! You came through at last, didn't you? The president emeritus agrees with you, Skinner, and it is so ordered.
“Now skip along and wireless the glad news to Mike and Terence. Tell them when they have the coal out to proceed to Rio and load manganese ore.”
In due course Captain Michael J. Murphy and Mr. Terence Reardon came off the dry dock, the sole visible evidence of that unrecorded second naval engagement off the Falkland Islands being a slight list to starboard on the part of the Reardon nose, and a notch in Murphy's right ear. Mr. Skinner had had a local jeweler prepare the presentation watches against the day of the home-coming of the warriors of the Blue Star, and on a Saturday night Cappy gave a banquet to Mike and Terence, and every employee of the Ricks' interests who could possibly attend, was present to do the doughty pair honor and cheer when the awards for valor were duly made by Cappy and congratulatory speeches made by Mr. Skinner and Matt Peasley. It was such a gala occasion that Cappy drank three cocktails, battened down by a glass or two of champagne, and as a result was ill for two days thereafter. When he recovered, he announced sadly and solemnly that he was about to retire—forever; that nothing of a business nature should ever be permitted to drag him back into the harness again. Then he bade all of his employees a touching farewell, packed his golf clubs, and disappeared in the general direction of Southern California. He was away so long that eventually even the skeptical Mr. Skinner commenced to wonder if, perchance, the age of miracles had not yet passed and Cappy had really retired.
Alas! On the morning of December 24th, Cappy suddenly appeared at the office, his kindly old countenance aglow like a sunrise on the Alps. Immediately he cited Mr. Skinner to appear with the payrolls of all of the Ricks enterprises and show what cause, if any, existed, why there should not be a general whooping up of salaries to the deserving all along the line. The Ricks Lumber & Logging Company had already declared a Christmas dividend; the accounts of every ship in the Blue Star fleet had been made up to date and a special Christmas dividend declared, and, in accordance with ancient custom, Cappy had appeared to devote one day in the year to actual labor. Christmas dividend checks and checks covering Christmas presents to his employees were always signed by him; it was his way of letting the recipients know that, although retired, he still kept a wary eye on his affairs.
He had writer's cramp by the time he finished, but while the spending frenzy was on him he would take no rest; so he seized a pencil and, while Mr. Skinner called off the names of the deserving and the length of time each had spent in the Ricks service, Cappy scrawled a five, a ten or a twenty beside each name. Thus, in time, they came to the first name on the Blue Star pay roll.
“Matthew Peasley, president; salary, ten thousand dollars a year; length of service, four months,” Mr. Skinner intoned. “How about a raise for Captain Matt?”
Cappy laid down his pencil and looked at Skinner over the rims of his spectacles.
“Skinner,” he said gravely, “you're only drawing twelve thousand a year, and you've been with me twenty-five years! And here I'm giving this boy Matt ten thousand a year and he's been on the pay roll only four months. Why, it isn't fair!”
“Remember, he was three years in the Blue Star ships that—”
“Can't consider that at all when raising salaries. The salaries of ship's officers are fixed and immutable anyhow, and when considering raises for my employees. I can take into consideration only the length of time they've been directly under my eye. Cut Matt's salary to five thousand a year and let him grow up with the business. His dividends from his Ricks L. & L. and Blue Star stock will keep him going, and he hasn't any household bills to keep up. He and Florry live with me, and I'm the goat.”
“I fear Matt will not take kindly to that program, Mr. Ricks—particularly at this time, when every ship in the offshore fleet is paying for herself every voyage.”
“Why?” Cappy demanded.
“Well,” Mr. Skinner replied hesitatingly, “perhaps I have no business to tell you this, because the knowledge came to me quite by accident; but the fact of the matter is, Matt is going to build himself an auxiliary schooner—”
“Good news!” Cappy piped. “That's the ticket for soup! An auxiliary schooner with semi-Diesel engines, four masts and about a million-foot lumber capacity would be a mighty good investment right now. Every yard in the country that builds steel vessels is filled up with orders, but our coast shipyards can turn out wooden vessels in a hurry; and, with auxiliary power, they'll pay five hundred per cent on their cost before this flurry in shipping, due to the war, is over. I don't care, Skinner—provided he builds a ship that's big enough to go foreign—”
“But this isn't that kind,” Mr. Skinner interrupted.
“No other kind will do, Skinner.”
“This is to be a schooner yacht—”
“A what!” Cappy shrilled.
“A yacht—eighty-five feet over all—”
“Eighty-five grandmothers! Why, what the devil does that boy want of a yacht? How much money does he intend to put into her?”
“I do not know, Mr. Ricks; but we can be reasonably certain of one thing; Matt Peasley will not build a cheap boat. She'll have a lot of gewgaws and gadgets, teak rail, mahogany joiner-work—at the very least, she'll cost him thirty thousand dollars.”
“Skinner,” Cappy declared solemnly, “he might as well put the money in a sack, go down to Clay Street Wharf and throw the money overboard! The other night I saw a couple of soldiers having a pleasant time in a shooting gallery, but what the president of the Blue Star Navigation Company wants with a thirty-thousand-dollar yacht beats my time. Why, he has more than thirty good vessels to play with all week, and yet he wants a yacht for Sunday! Skinner, my dear boy, that is wild, wanton extravagance.”
“Well, I dare say Matt thinks he can afford the extravagance.”
“Skinner, no man can afford it. Extravagance may reach a point where it becomes sinful. And I say it's a crime to put thirty thousand dollars into a yacht when the same thirty thousand, invested in a good vessel, will yield such tremendous returns. Skinner, my boy, how did you find out about this yacht nonsense?”
“I was looking through Matt's desk for a letter I had given him to read, and I ran across the plans. Thinking they were Blue Star plans, I looked them over; there was a letter from the naval architect attached—”
Cappy threw down his pencil.
“By the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet,” he cried in deep disgust, “I thought I was going to have a Merry Christmas—and now it's spoiled! Good Lord, Skinner! To think of a man throwing away thirty thousand dollars, not to mention the upkeep and interest after he's thrown it away—”
“You've just this very day thrown away about thirty thousand dollars you didn't have to,” Mr. Skinner reminded him.
“I do have to. I've got to keep all my boys happy and satisfied and up on their toes, or what the devil would happen to us? They're my partners when all is said and done, and how am I going to face my Maker if I don't give my partners a square deal? There's a vast difference between justice and extravagance. Skinner, you don't suppose Matt's like every other shellback of a skipper? Why, he's only twenty-five years old; and if he's got the blue-water fever again, after a year ashore, there'll be no standing him at thirty.”
“Well, he's got it, sir,” Mr. Skinner opined firmly. “Did you ever see an old sailing skipper that didn't get it? You remember Burns, who had theSweet Alferetta? His father died and left him a million dollars, and five years later he came sneaking in here one day, told you he was tired clipping coupons and that if you wanted to save his life you'd give him back theSweet Alferettaand a hundred dollars a month to skipper her! He sold his interest to his successor for two thousand dollars when he fell into the fortune—and five years later he bought it back for three thousand, just so he could have a job again.”
“Yes,” Cappy admitted; “they all get the blue-water fever—after they've left blue water. I never knew a sailor yet who wouldn't tell you sailoring was a dog's life; but I never knew one who quit and quite recovered from the hankering to go back. I think you're right, Skinner. This yacht is just a symptom of Matt's disease. He realizes his business interests tie him to the beach; but if he has a sailing yacht that he can fuss round with on week-ends in the bay, and once in a while make a little cruise to Puget Sound or the Gulf of Lower California, he figures he'll manage to survive.”
Mr. Skinner nodded.
“Speaking of yachts,” Cappy continued, “the case of old Cap'n Cliff Ashley suggests a cure for this boy Matt. Cap'n Cliff was a Gloucester fisherman, with the smartest little schooner that ever came home from the Grand Banks with halibut up to her hatches. He couldn't read or write and he'd never learned navigation; but he'd been born with the instincts of a homing pigeon, and somehow whenever he pointed his schooner toward Gloucester he managed to arrive on schedule; and any time he got a good fair breeze from the west, like as not he'd run over to England and sell his catch there.
“Like most of his breed, Cap'n Cliff had to have a fast boat; he had to keep her as immaculate as a yacht in order to be happy, and he was never so happy as when he'd meet a squadron of the New York Yacht Club out on a cruise and sail circles round the flagship with his little old knockabout fish schooner. On such occasions old Cap'n Cliff would break out a long red burgee with M.O.B.Y.C. in white letters on it. On one of his trips to England he hooked up with a big schooner wearing the ensign of the Royal Yacht Club and dassed 'em to race with him.
“Well, sir, it happened that the late King Edward was aboard his yacht that day, and you know what a sport he was in his palmy days. Cap'n Cliff cracked on everything he had in the way of plain sail and, after holding the King even for a couple of hours, he put his packet under gaff topsails and fisherman's staysail and broke out the balloon jib, bade Edward good-bye in the International Code—and flew! About six hours after Cap'n Cliff came to anchor, the King loafed up in his yacht, dropped anchor, cleared away his launch, and came over to visit Cap'n Cliff and shake hands with him.
“'My dear sir,' says Edward, pointing aloft to the red burgee with M.O.B.Y.C. on it, 'pray to what yacht club do you belong?'
“'My own bloomin' yacht club, your majesty,' says Cap'n Cliff; and if he hadn't been a Yankee fisherman the King would have knighted him on the spot!
“And that remark, Skinner, my dear boy, clears the atmosphere in the case of our own dear Matthew. He shall have his own blooming yacht club, only his yacht shall carry cargo and pay her way.”
“You mean—”
“I mean I'm going to send him to sea for one voyage, once a year, which will break up that blue-water fever and save Matt thirty thousand dollars as an initial investment, and about ten thousand a year upkeep and interest. All that boy needs to cure him, Skinner, is the oldRetriever, totally surrounded by horizon and smelling of a combination of tarred rope, turpentine, wet canvas, fresh paint, green lumber and the stink of the bilge water. Lordy me, Skinner, it puts them to sleep and they wake up feeling perfectly bully! Where's theRetrievernow, Skinner, and who is in charge of her destinies?”
“She's due on Puget Sound from the West Coast. Captain Lib Curtis has her.”
“Good news! Well, now, Skinner, you listen to me: The minute he reports his arrival you wire Lib to put the old harridan on dry dock and slick her up until she looks like four aces and a king, with everybody in the game standing pat. Can't have any whiskers on her bottom when Matt takes her out, Skinner, because if the boy's to enjoy himself she's got to be able to show a clean pair of heels. Then write Lib to wire his resignation and give any old reason for it. Have him resign just before the vessel is loaded and ready for sea, and tell him to insist on being relieved immediately. Of course, Skinner, Matt will get busy right away, looking for the right skipper to relieve Captain Curtis—and about that time the president emeritus will shove in his oar and ball things up. Every doggoned skipper Matt recommends for the job is going to have his application vetoed by Alden P. Ricks, and—er—ahem! Harumph-h-h!”
“Yes, Mr. Ricks.”
“And you stick by me, Skinner. Follow all my leads and don't trump any of my aces; and just about the time Matt begins to get good and mad at my doggoned interference—you know, Skinner, my boy, I'm only a figurehead—you cut in and say: 'Well, for heaven's sake! You two still squabbling over a skipper for theRetriever?Matt, why don't you save the demurrage and take her out yourself—eh?'” And Cappy winked knowingly and prodded his general manager in the ribs.
“I guess that plan's kind of poor—eh, Skinner? I guess it won't work—eh? Particularly when I come right back and say: 'Well, he might as well, for all the use he is round this office. Here I go to work and appoint him president of the Blue Star and he won't stay in the office and'tend to the president's business. Yes, sir! Leaves all that to you and me, Skinner, while he degrades himself doing the work of a port captain.'”
“All of which is quite true, Mr. Ricks,” Mr. Skinner affirmed. “He will not stay in the office—and he's getting worse. Two-thirds of his time is spent round the docks.”
“Well, two-thirds of his time in 1915 will not be spent round the docks, Skinner. Play that bet to win! We're going to have a busy old year in the shipping game in 1915, and a busier one in 1916 if that war in Europe isn't over by then. A voyage in theRetrieverwill fix the boy up, Skinner, and he'll stick round the office and put over some real business. Yachts! Hah! What does a business man want of a yacht?”
“You overlooked one very important detail, Mr. Ricks,” Skinner ventured.
“I overlook nothing, Skinner—nothing. His wife shall accompany him on the voyage. I shall implant the idea in her head, beginning this very night as soon as I get home. I'll just tell her she isn't and never will be a true sailor's true love until she takes a voyage with her husband. Romantic girl, Florry! She'll about eat that suggestion, feathers and all, Skinner. She'll do the real work for us. Always remember, my boy, that an ounce of promotion is worth enough perspiration to float theNarcissus.”
“But what shall we do for a port captain?”
“I've ordered Mike Murphy—via Matt, of course—to take a vacation under full salary and recover from the wounds he received walloping that German crew on theNarcissus. About the time Matt leaves in theRetriever, Mike will be ready to go to work again or commit murder if we don't give it to him; so we'll slip him a temporary appointment as port captain. I'm going to make it permanent some day, anyhow. I suppose you've noticed that Mike Murphy has a crush on your stenographer; and I don't see how he's going to put anything over if he never gets a chance to see the girl!”
“I really hadn't noticed it, Mr. Ricks.”
“If it was a ten-cent piece you'd notice it,” Cappy retorted. “And now that matter is settled, how about this port steward? Is he a grafter? If not, raise him five dollars a month. He's been with us only a year.”
Late that afternoon, after Cappy had made the rounds of his office, distributing his checks and wishing all hands the merriest of Christmases, he paused at last at Mr. Skinner's desk and laid a thousand-dollar check thereon.
“Not a peep out of you, Skinner—not a peep!” he cautioned his general manager. “No thanks due me. You've earned it a thousand times over—and then some. Hum-m! Ahem! Harumph-h-h! By the way, Skinner, my dear boy, I forgot to mention to you another little idea that's in the back of my head.”
“You mean about sending Matt to sea for a voyage?”
“Exactly. The sea is a wonderful institution, Skinner—wonderful! It promotes health and strength; and—er—damn it, Skinner, my dear boy, have you ever observed that there isn't a married skipper in our employ that hasn't been lucky? Many well-known authorities prescribe a sea voyage—”
“What for, Mr. Ricks?”
Cappy thrust his thumb into Skinner's ribs, winked, bent low, and whispered:
“Too slow, Skinner; too slow. I'm getting old, you know—I can't wait for ever. And if the experiment succeeds—Skinner, my dear boy, you're next! You've been married more than a year now—”
“I fail to comprehend—”
“Grandson!” Cappy whispered. “Grandson!”
“Oh!” said Mr. Skinner.
One of the remarks most frequently heard on California Street was to the effect that whenever Cappy Ricks girded up his loins and went after something he generally got it. His scheme to get Matt Peasley to sea for one voyage, accompanied by Florry, worked as smoothly as a piston; and on the fifteenth of January the Peasleys went aboard theRetrieverat Bellingham and towed out, bound for Manila with a cargo of fir lumber. Matt made the run down in sixty-six days, a smart passage, waited a week in Manila Bay before he could secure a berth and commence discharging, discharged in a week, loaded a cargo of hemp, with a deckload of hardwood logs, and was ready for the return trip to San Francisco on April twenty-fourth, on which day he towed out past Corregidor.
His wife, however, was not with him on the return voyage. Following a family conference, it was decided that Florry should return home on the mail steamer—which action Cappy Ricks considered most significant when Matt apprised him of it by cable, but failed to state a reason. The president emeritus, immediately upon receipt of this information, trotted into Mr. Skinner's office and laid Matt Peasley's cablegram on the latter's desk.
“Well, Skinner, my dear boy,” he piped, rubbing his hands together the while, “what do you know about that?”
“Do you—er—suspect—er—something, Mr. Ricks?”
“Suspect? Not a bit of it. I know! Neither Florry nor Matt would dream of permitting the other to come home alone if there wasn't a third party to be considered. Paste that in your hat, Skinner. It isn't done.”
Cappy was right, for the same steamer that bore his daughter home carried also a brief letter from his son-in-law conveying the tidings of great joy. The old man was so happy he went into Mr. Skinner's office and struck his general manager a terrible blow between the shoulders, after which he declared it was a shame that his years and reputation for respectability denied him the privilege of chartering a seagoing hack and painting the town red!
TheRetrievercrept slowly up the China Sea on the first of the southwest monsoon. At that period of the year, however, the monsoon is weak and unsteady; and after clearing the northern end of Luzon theRetrieverkicked round in a belt of light and baffling airs for a week. Then the monsoon freshened somewhat and theRetrieveronce more rolled lazily away on her course, with young Matt Peasley humming chanteys on her quarter-deck and pondering the mystery that confronts all mankind in their first adventure in fatherhood. Would it be a boy or a girl? He was expressing to himself for perhaps the thousandth time the hope that it would be a boy, when from the poop he saw something he did not relish.
It was the ship's cat coming across the deckload toward him, in his yellow eyes a singularly pleased expression and in his mouth a singularly large rat.
Matt Peasley stepped below, found an old glove and drew it over his right hand, after which he returned to the quarter-deck.
“Come, Tommy!” he called; and pussy came, to be seized by the tail and, still holding fast to his prey, cast overboard.
“It's bad luck to do that to a black cat, sir,” the mate informed him.
Matt Peasley's eyes were blazing.
“And it's worse luck still for any mate aboard my ship who neglects to put the rat-guards on the lines when the vessel is lying at the dock,” he growled. “You lubberly idiot!”
“But I did put the rat-guards on the lines,” the mate protested.
“Yes, I know you did; but I had to remind you of it,” Matt replied. “You didn't get them on in time—and now the Lord only knows how many rats we have aboard. Ordinarily I don't mind rats, but an Oriental rat is something to be afraid of.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because they carry the germs of bubonic plague, you farmer!” And Matt very carefully removed his glove and cast it overboard after the cat. “And it's a cold day when you can't find an occasional case of plague in the Orient. The cat caught the rat and mauled it round; hence the cat had to go, because I never permit in my cabin a cat that has been on intimate terms with an Oriental rat. And now I bet I know what's wrong with that fo'castle hand that went into the sick bay the day before yesterday. He complained of swelling in the glands of his neck and groins.”
The cook left the forward deckhouse and came aft over the deckload. At the break of the poop he paused.
“Captain Peasley,” he announced, “Lindstrom is dead.”
“Tell everybody to keep away from him,” Matt ordered. He turned to the mate. “Mr. Matson,” he announced, “the first duty of a murderer is to get rid of the body. Go forward and throw Lindstrom's body overboard; then stay forward. If you come aft until I send for you I'll blow your brains out!”