Cappy Ricks was having his customary mid-afternoon nap in his big swivel
chair and his feet on his desk, when Mr. Skinner came in and woke him
up.
“I just couldn't help it, sir,” he announced apologetically, as Cappy
opened one eye and glared at him, “I had to wake you up and tell you the
news.”
“Tell it!” Cappy snapped.
“The Retriever arrived at Grays Harbor this morning, Mr. Ricks. She's
broken the record for a fast passage,” and he handed Cappy Ricks a
telegram.
“Bless my withered heart!” Cappy declared, and opened his other eye.
“You don't tell me? Well, well, well! All Hands And Feet is making good
right off the bat, isn't he?” Cappy chuckled. “Skinner, my dear boy,”
he bragged, “did you ever see me start out to pick a skipper and hand
myself the worst of it?”
“No, sir,” Mr. Skinner maintained dutifully, and turned away to hide a
wicked little smile, which under the circumstances Skinner was entitled
to.
“And you never will, Skinner. Paste that in your hat, boy. That big
Swede, Peterson, can handle a ship as well as he can handle a refractory
mate--and that's going some, Skinner--going some! I'm not surprised at
his fast passage. Not at all, Skinner. Come to think of it, I'm going
to fire that Scotchman in the Fortuna and give All Hands And Feet his
berth. He has earned it.”
He adjusted his spectacles and read:
Hoquiam, Washington,
June 27, 19--.
Blue Star Navigation Company,
258 California St.,
San Francisco.
Arrived this morning, seventy-nine days from bar to bar, all
hands well, including your special messenger. Offered him job
as second mate, just to show I had no hard feelings, but he
would not work, so I brought him home under hatches. Permitted
him present his formal credentials this morning and turned over
command of ship to him. Declined responsibility and left,
saying you had promised him command four-masted schooner.
Seemed trifle hurt, although it is seventy-nine days since I
thrashed him. Consequently I am still in command and awaiting
your instructions.
Peasley.
For a long time Cappy Ricks kept looking sternly at Mr. Skinner over
the tops of his spectacles. There was blood on the moon again, and the
silence was terrible. He kept rocking gently backward and forward in his
swivel chair, for all the world as though preparing for a panther-like
spring at Mr. Skinner's throat. Suddenly he exploded.
“I won't have another thing to do with the man Peasley!” he shrilled.
“The fellow is a thorn in my side and I want peace! Understand, Skinner?
I--want--peace! What in blue blazes do I pay you ten thousand a year for
if it isn't to give me peace? Answer me that, Skinner.”
“Well you said you wanted to attend to the shipping--”
“That'll do, Skinner--that'll do! You're an honorary member of the
I-told-you-so Club and I'm thoroughly disgusted with you. Rid me of this
man--immediately. If I ever get another telegram from the scoundrel I
shall hold you personally responsible.”
Forthwith Mr. Skinner acted. He went up to the office of the United
States District Attorney and swore out a Federal warrant for the arrest
of Matthew Peasley on a charge of mutiny and insubordination, assault
and battery on the high seas, and everything else he could think of. The
authorities promptly wired north to send a United States marshal down
to Grays Harbor to arrest the culprit; and the following afternoon,
when Cappy Ricks got back to his office after luncheon and picked up the
paper, the very first thing his glance rested on was the headline:
MATE CHARGED WITH MUTINY!
Mutiny and sundry other crimes on the high seas are out of the ordinary;
hence the United Press correspondent at Hoquiam had considered the story
of Matt Peasley's arrest worthy of dissemination over the Pacific Coast.
Cappy Ricks read it, the principal item of interest in it being a
purported interview with Matt Peasley, who, in choice newspaperese, had
entered a vigorous denial of the charge. The story concluded with the
statement that Peasley was a native of Thomaston, Maine, where he had
always borne a most excellent reputation for steadiness and sobriety.
Cappy Ricks laid the paper aside.
Thomaston, Maine! So the man Peasley was a Down-Easter! That explained
it.
“Well, I hope my teeth may fall into the ocean!” Cappy murmured.
“Thomaston, Maine! Why, he's one of our own town boys--one of my own
people! Dear, dear, dear! Well now, it's strange I didn't know that
name. I must be getting old to forget it.”
He sat in his swivel chair, rocking gently backward and forward for
several minutes, after a fashion he had when perturbed. Suddenly his
old hand shot out and pressed the push button on his desk, and his
stenographer answered.
“Send Mr. Skinner in!” he commanded.
Presently Mr. Skinner came, and again Cappy eyed him over the tops of
his spectacles; again the terrible silence. Skinner commenced to fidget.
“Skinner,” began Cappy impressively, “how often have I got to tell you
not to interfere with the shipping? Tut, tut! Not a peep out of you,
sir--not a peep! You had the audacity, sir, to swear to a Federal
warrant against the man Peasley. How dare you, sir? Do you know who the
man Peasley is? You don't. Well, sir, I'll tell you. He's a Down-East
boy and I went to school with his people. I'll bet Ethan Peasley was
a relative of this boy Matt, because Ethan had a cousin by the name of
Matthew; and Ethan and Matt and I used to hell around together until
they went to sea.
“Lord bless you, Skinner, I can remember yet the day the Martha Peasley
came up the harbor, with her flag at half-mast--and poor old Ethan was
gone--whipped off the end of her main yard when she rolled!
“We were great chums, Ethan and I, Skinner; and I cried. Why--why, damn
it, sir, this boy Matt's people and mine are all buried in the same
cemetery back home. Yes, sir! And nearly all of 'em have the same
epitaph--'Lost at Sea'--and--you idiot, Skinner! What do you mean, sir,
by standing there with your infernal little smile on your smug face? Out
of my office, you jackanapes, and call the dogs off this boy Matt. Why,
there was never one of his breed that wasn't a man and a seaman, every
inch of him.
“All Hands And Feet thrash a Peasley! Huh! A joke! Why, Ethan was six
foot six at twenty, with an arm like a fathom of towing cable. Catch me
turning down one of our own boys! No, sir! Not by a damned sight!”
In all his life Mr. Skinner had never seen Cappy Ricks so wrought up.
He fled at once to call off the dogs, while Cappy turned to his desk and
wrote this telegram:
San Francisco, California.
June 28, 19--.
Matt Peasley,
Care United States Marshal,
Hoquiam, Washington.
Congratulations on splendid voyage. You busted record.
Lindquist, in the John A. Logan, did it in eighty-four days in
the spring of ninety-four. Draw draft and pay off crew, render
report of voyage, place second mate in charge, and proceed
immediately to Seattle to get your master's ticket. Will
telegraph Seattle inspectors requesting waive further probation
as first mate and issue license if you pass examination in
order that you may accept captaincy of Retriever. Skinner, my
manager, had you arrested. Would never have done it myself. I
come from Thomaston, Maine, and I knew your people. Would
never have sent the Swede had I known which tribe of Peasley
you belonged to--though, if he had licked you, no more than you
deserved. I want no more of your impudence, Matt.
Alden P. Ricks.
* * * * * *
For a week business droned along in Cappy Ricks' office as usual,
interrupted at last by the receipt of a telegram from Matt Peasley to
Cappy. It was sent from Seattle and read:
“Have now legal right to be called captain. Rejoin ship
tomorrow. Wire orders. Thank you.”
“God bless the lad!” Cappy murmured happily. “I'll bet he's going to
make me a skookum skipper. Still, I think he's pretty young and sadly in
need of training; so I'll have to take some of the conceit out of him.
I'm going to proceed to break his young heart; and if he yells murder
I'll fire him! On the contrary, if he's one of Ethan's tribe--well, the
Peasleys always did their duty; I'll say that for them. I hope he stands
the acid.”
Whereupon Cappy Ricks squared round to his desk and wrote:
San Francisco, July 5, 19--.
Captain Matthew Peasley,
Master Barkentine Retriever,
Hoquiam, Washington.
Glad you have legal right to be called captain. Sorry I have
not. Proceed to Weatherby's mill, at Cosmopolis, and load for
Antofagasta, Chile. Remember speed synonymous with dividends
in shipping business.
Blue Star Navigation Company.
When Cappy signed his telegrams with the company name it was always a
sure indication he had discharged his cargo of sentiment and gotten down
to business once more.
“A little creosoted piling now and then is bully for the best of men,”
he cackled. “For a month of Sundays that man Peasley will curse me as
far as he can smell the Retriever. Oh, well! Every dog must have his
day--and I'm a wise old dog. I'll teach that Matt boy some respect for
his owners before I'm through with him!”