Almost immediately the office boy ushered Mr. Peck into Cappy's
presence. The moment he was fairly inside the door the visitor halted,
came easily and naturally to "attention" and bowed respectfully, while
the cool glance of his keen blue eyes held steadily the autocrat of the
Blue Star Navigation Company.
"Mr. Ricks, Peck is my name, sir--William E. Peck. Thank you, sir, for
acceding to my request for an interview."
"Ahem! Hum-m-m!" Cappy looked belligerent. "Sit down, Mr. Peck."
Mr. Peck sat down, but as he crossed to the chair beside Cappy's desk,
the old gentleman noticed that his visitor walked with a slight limp,
and that his left forearm had been amputated half way to the elbow. To
the observant Cappy, the American Legion button in Mr. Peck's lapel told
the story.
"Well, Mr. Peck," he queried gently, "what can I do for you?"
"I've called for my job," the veteran replied briefly.
"By the Holy Pink-toed Prophet!" Cappy ejaculated, "you say that like a
man who doesn't expect to be refused."
"Quite right, sir. I do not anticipate a refusal."
"Why?"
Mr. William E. Peck's engaging but somewhat plain features rippled into
the most compelling smile Cappy Ricks had ever seen. "I am a salesman,
Mr. Ricks," he replied. "I know that statement to be true because I have
demonstrated, over a period of five years, that I can sell my share of
anything that has a hockable value. I have always found, however, that
before proceeding to sell goods I had to sell the manufacturer of those
goods something, to-wit--myself! I am about to sell myself to you."
"Son," said Cappy smilingly, "you win. You've sold me already. When did
they sell you a membership in the military forces of the United States
of America?"
"On the morning of April 7th, 1917, sir."
"That clinches our sale. I soldiered with the Knights of Columbus at
Camp Kearny myself, but when they refused to let me go abroad with my
division my heart was broken, so I went over the hill."
That little touch of the language of the line appeared to warm Mr.
Peck's heart considerably, establishing at once a free masonry between
them.
"I was with the Portland Lumber Company, selling lumber in the Middle
West before the war," he explained. "Uncle Sam gave me my sheepskin at
Letter-man General Hospital last week, with half disability on my ten
thousand dollars' worth of government insurance. Whittling my wing was a
mere trifle, but my broken leg was a long time mending, and now it's
shorter than it really ought to be. And I developed pneumonia with
influenza and they found some T.B. indications after that. I've been at
the government tuberculosis hospital at Fort Bayard, New Mexico, for a
year. However, what's left of me is certified to be sound. I've got five
inches chest expansion and I feel fine."
"Not at all blue or discouraged?" Cappy hazarded.
"Oh, I got off easy, Mr. Ricks. I have my head left--and my right arm. I
can think and I can write, and even if one of my wheels is flat, I can
hike longer and faster after an order than most. Got a job for me, Mr.
Ricks?"
"No, I haven't, Mr. Peck. I'm out of it, you know. Retired ten years
ago. This office is merely a headquarters for social frivolity--a place
to get my mail and mill over the gossip of the street. Our Mr. Skinner
is the chap you should see."
"I have seen Mr. Skinner, sir," the erstwhile warrior replied, "but he
wasn't very sympathetic. I think he jumped to the conclusion that I was
attempting to trade him my empty sleeve. He informed me that there
wasn't sufficient business to keep his present staff of salesmen busy,
so then I told him I'd take anything, from stenographer up. I'm the
champion one-handed typist of the United States Army. I can tally lumber
and bill it. I can keep books and answer the telephone."
"No encouragement, eh?"
"No, sir."
"Well, now, son," Cappy informed his cheerful visitor confidentially,
"you take my tip and see my son-in-law, Captain Peasley. He's high, low
and jack-in-the-game in the shipping end of our business."
"I have also interviewed Captain Peasley. He was very kind. He said he
felt that he owed me a job, but business is so bad he couldn't make a
place for me. He told me he is now carrying a dozen ex-service men
merely because he hasn't the heart to let them go. I believe him."
"Well, my dear boy--my dear young friend! Why do you come to me?"
"Because," Mr. Peck replied smilingly, "I want you to go over their
heads and give me a job. I don't care a hoot what it is, provided I can
do it. If I can do it, I'll do it better than it was ever done before,
and if I can't do that I'll quit to save you the embarrassment of firing
me. I'm not an object of charity, but I'm scarcely the man I used to be
and I'm four years behind the procession and have to catch up. I have
the best of references--"
"I see you have," Cappy cut in blandly, and pressed the push-button on
his desk. Mr. Skinner entered. He glanced disapprovingly at William E.
Peck and then turned inquiring eyes toward Cappy Ricks.
"Skinner, dear boy," Cappy purred amiably, "I've been thinking over the
proposition to send Andrews out to the Shanghai office, and I've come to
this conclusion. We'll have to take a chance. At the present time that
office is in charge of a stenographer, and we've got to get a manager on
the job without further loss of time. So I'll tell you what we'll do.
We'll send Andrews out on the next boat, but inform him that his
position is temporary. Then if he doesn't make good out there we can
take him back into this office, where he is a most valuable man.
Meanwhile--ahem! hum-m-m! Harumph!--meanwhile, you'd oblige me greatly,
Skinner, my dear boy, if you would consent to take this young man into
your office and give him a good work-out to see the stuff he's made of.
As a favor to me, Skinner, my dear boy, as a favor to me."
Mr. Skinner, in the language of the sporting world, was down for the
count--and knew it. Young Mr. Peck knew it too, and smiled graciously
upon the general manager, for young Mr. Peck had been in the army, where
one of the first great lessons to be assimilated is this: that the
commanding general's request is always tantamount to an order.
"Very well, sir," Mr. Skinner replied coldly. "Have you arranged the
compensation to be given Mr. Peck?"
Cappy threw up a deprecating hand. "That detail is entirely up to you,
Skinner. Far be it from me to interfere in the internal administration
of your department. Naturally you will pay Mr. Peck what he is worth and
not a cent more." He turned to the triumphant Peck. "Now, you listen to
me, young feller. If you think you're slipping gracefully into a good
thing, disabuse your mind of that impression right now. You'll step
right up to the plate, my son, and you'll hit the ball fairly on the
nose, and you'll do it early and often. The first time you tip a foul,
you'll be warned. The second time you do it you'll get a month's lay-off
to think it over, and the third time you'll be out--for keeps. Do I make
myself clear?"
"You do, sir," Mr. Peck declared happily. "All I ask is fighting room
and I'll hack my way into Mr. Skinner's heart. Thank you, Mr. Skinner,
for consenting to take me on. I appreciate your action very, very much
and shall endeavor to be worthy of your confidence."
"Young scoundrel! In-fer-nal young scoundrel!" Cappy murmured to
himself. "He has a sense of humor, thank God! Ah, poor old narrow-gauge
Skinner! If that fellow ever gets a new or unconventional thought in his
stodgy head, it'll kill him overnight. He's hopping mad right now,
because he can't say a word in his own defense, but if he doesn't make
hell look like a summer holiday for Mr. Bill Peck, I'm due to be
mercifully chloroformed. Good Lord, how empty life would be if I
couldn't butt in and raise a little riot every once in so often."
Young Mr. Peck had risen and was standing at attention. "When do I
report for duty, sir?" he queried of Mr. Skinner.
"Whenever you're ready," Skinner retorted with a wintry smile. Mr. Peck
glanced at a cheap wrist watch. "It's twelve o'clock now," he
soliloquized aloud. "I'll pop out, wrap myself around some rations and
report on the job at one P.M. I might just as well knock out half a
day's pay." He glanced at Cappy Ricks and quoted:
"Count that day lost whose low descending sun
Finds prices shot to glory and business done for fun."
Unable to maintain his composure in the face of such levity during
office hours, Mr. Skinner withdrew, still wrapped in his sub-Antarctic
dignity. As the door closed behind him, Mr. Peck's eyebrows went up in a
manner indicative of apprehension.
"I'm off to a bad start, Mr. Ricks," he opined.
"You only asked for a start," Cappy piped back at him. "I didn't
guarantee you a _good_ start, and I wouldn't because I can't. I can only
drive Skinner and Matt Peasley so far--and no farther. There's always a
point at which I quit--er--ah--William."
"More familiarly known as Bill Peck, sir."
"Very well, Bill." Cappy slid out to the edge of his chair and peered at
Bill Peck balefully over the top of his spectacles. "I'll have my eye on
you, young feller," he shrilled. "I freely acknowledge our indebtedness
to you, but the day you get the notion in your head that this office is
an old soldiers' home--" He paused thoughtfully. "I wonder what Skinner
_will_ pay you?" he mused. "Oh, well," he continued, whatever it is,
take it and say nothing and when the moment is propitious--and provided
you've earned it--I'll intercede with the danged old relic and get you a
raise."
"Thank you very much, sir. You are most kind. Good-day, sir."
And Bill Peck picked up his hat and limped out of The Presence. Scarcely
had the door closed behind him than Mr. Skinner re-entered Cappy Ricks'
lair. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cappy silenced him with an
imperious finger.
"Not a peep out of you, Skinner, my dear boy," he chirped amiably. "I
know exactly what you're going to say and I admit your right to say it,
but--as--ahem! Harumph-h-h!--now, Skinner, listen to reason. How the
devil could you have the heart to reject that crippled ex-soldier? There
he stood, on one sound leg, with his sleeve tucked into his coat pocket
and on his homely face the grin of an unwhipped, unbeatable man. But
you--blast your cold, unfeeling soul, Skinner!--looked him in the eye
and turned him down like a drunkard turns down near-beer. Skinner, how
_could_ you do it?"
Undaunted by Cappy's admonitory finger, Mr. Skinner struck a distinctly
defiant attitude.
"There is no sentiment in business," he replied angrily. "A week ago
last Thursday the local posts of the American Legion commenced their
organized drive for jobs for their crippled and unemployed comrades, and
within three days you've sawed off two hundred and nine such jobs on the
various corporations that you control. The gang you shipped up to the
mill in Washington has already applied for a charter for a new post to
be known as Cappy Ricks Post No. 534. And you had experienced men
discharged to make room for these ex-soldiers."
"You bet I did," Cappy yelled triumphantly. "It's always Old Home Week
in every logging camp and saw-mill in the Northwest for I.W.W.'s and
revolutionary communists. I'm sick of their unauthorized strikes and
sabotage, and by the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, Cappy Ricks Post. No. 534,
American Legion, is the only sort of back-fire I can think of to put the
Wobblies on the run."
"Every office and ship and retail yard could be run by a
first-sergeant," Skinner complained. "I'm thinking of having reveille
and retreat and bugle calls and Saturday morning inspections. I tell
you, sir, the Ricks interests have absorbed all the old soldiers
possible and at the present moment those interests are overflowing with
glory. What we want are workers, not talkers. These ex-soldiers spend
too much time fighting their battles over again."
"Well, Comrade Peck is the last one I'll ask you to absorb, Skinner,"
Cappy promised contritely. "Ever read Kipling's Barrack Room Ballads,
Skinner?"
"I have no time to read," Mr. Skinner protested.
"Go up town this minute and buy a copy and read one ballad entitled
'Tommy,'" Cappy barked. "For the good of your immortal soul," he added.
"Well, Comrade Peck doesn't make a hit with me, Mr. Ricks. He applied to
me for a job and I gave him his answer. Then he went to Captain Matt and
was refused, so, just to demonstrate his bad taste, he went over our
heads and induced you to pitchfork him into a job. He'll curse the day
he was inspired to do that."
"Skinner! Skinner! Look me in the eye! Do you know why I asked you to
take on Bill Peck?"
"I do. Because you're too tender-hearted for your own good."
"You unimaginative dunderhead! You jibbering jackdaw! How could I reject
a boy who simply would not be rejected? Why, I'll bet a ripe peach that
Bill Peck was one of the doggondest finest soldiers you ever saw. He
carries his objective. He sized you up just like that, Skinner. He
declined to permit you to block him. Skinner, that Peck person has been
opposed by experts. Yes, sir--experts! What kind of a job are you going
to give him, Skinner, my dear boy?"
"Andrews' job, of course."
"Oh, yes, I forgot. Skinner, dear boy, haven't we got about half a
million feet of skunk spruce to saw off on somebody?" Mr. Skinner nodded
and Cappy continued with all the naïve eagerness of one who has just
made a marvelous discovery, which he is confident will revolutionize
science. "Give him that stinking stuff to peddle, Skinner, and if you
can dig up a couple of dozen carloads of red fir or bull pine in
transit, or some short or odd-length stock, or some larch ceiling or
flooring, or some hemlock random stock--in fact, anything the trade
doesn't want as a gift--you get me, don't you, Skinner?"
Mr. Skinner smiled his swordfish smile. "And if he fails to make
good--_au revoir_, eh?"
"Yes, I suppose so, although I hate to think about it. On the other
hand, if he makes good he's to have Andrews' salary. We must be fair,
Skinner. Whatever our faults we must always be fair." He rose and patted
the general manager's lean shoulder. "There, there, Skinner, my boy.
Forgive me if I've been a trifle--ah--ahem!--precipitate
and--er--harumph-h-h! Skinner, if you put a prohibitive price on that
skunk fir, by the Holy Pink-toed Prophet, I'll fire you! Be fair, boy,
be fair. No dirty work, Skinner. Remember, Comrade Peck has half of his
left forearm buried in France."
* * * * *