When four days had elapsed the manager of the Ranier mill wired the Blue
Star Navigation Company that the Retriever had not yet appeared at their
dock.
Now four days wasted means something to a big barkentine like the
Retriever; and in the absence of any excuse for the delay Cappy Ricks
promptly came to the conclusion that Matt Peasley was ashore in Seattle,
disporting himself after the time-honored custom of deep-sea sailors
home from a long cruise. There could be no other reason for such
flagrant inattention to orders; for, had the man Peasley been ill, the
mate, Murphy, whom the captain vouched for as sober and intelligent,
would have had his superior sent to a hospital and wired the office for
orders.
“Skinner,” said Cappy, “send in a stenographer.”
When the girl appeared Cappy Ricks dictated this wire:
Captain Matthew Peasley,
Master Barkentine Retriever,
Colman Dock, Seattle, Washington.
Are you drunk, dead or asleep? You have your orders. Obey
them P.D.Q. or turn over command to Chief Mate Murphy.
Alden P. Ricks.
“There!” he shrilled. “I've signed my name to it. Sign a telegram Blue
Star Navigation Company and these infernal skippers think a clerk sent
it; but when they know the boss is on to them they'll jump lively. Bring
me the answer to that as soon as it comes, Skinner.”
However, the answer did not come that day. Indeed, the next day
had almost dragged to a close before Mr. Skinner appeared with this
telegraphic bomb:
Alden P. Ricks,
258 California St.,
San Francisco.
Neither! Been waiting my turn to go on dry dock. On now.
Didn't reply yesterday because too busy driving toothpicks in
vessel's bottom to plug up wormholes. If Murphy hadn't hauled
into fresh water last time on Grays Harbor while I was in
Seattle getting my ticket, her bottom would look like a
colander now. Sixteen months in the water. You ought to be
ashamed to treat a good staunch ship like that. Off dock day
after to-morrow; will tow to Tacoma immediately thereafter.
Meantime expect apology for insulting telegram.
Peasley.
Sixteen months without dry-docking! Why, her bottom must look like the
devil! Cappy Ricks gazed long and earnestly at his general manager.
“Skinner,” he said, “you're an ass! Why was not this vessel dry-docked
before you sent her to Antofagasta?”
Mr. Skinner lost his temper.
“Because I didn't send her to Antofagasta,” he replied sharply. “You
did! And the reason she wasn't docked is because there isn't a dock on
Grays Harbor. If you wouldn't interfere in the shipping, Mr. Ricks, and
spoil my plans to satisfy your personal whims, the vessel would never
have gone on that long voyage without being cleaned and painted.”
“Enough!” Cappy half screamed. “It's a disgrace! Not another word, sir!
Not another peep out of you. Why didn't you order the man Peasley to
dock her? Why did you leave the decision to him? He knew his vessel was
foul--he thought we ought to know it, also; and naturally he expected
that when we ordered him to Seattle we would have made arrangements to
put him on dry dock. Instead of which he had to make them himself; and
I'm shown up as a regular, infernal--er--er--baboon! Yes, sir! Regular
baboon! Nice spectacle you've made of me, getting me into a scrape where
I have to apologize to my own captain! Baboon! Huh! Baboon! Yes; you're
the baboon!”
“Well, I can't think of everything, Mr. Ricks--”
“Everything! Good Lord, man, if you'd only think of something! Send in a
stenographer.”
Mr. Skinner rang for the girl and retired in high dudgeon, while Cappy
Ricks smote his corrugated brow and brought forth the following:
Captain Matthew Peasley,
Master Barkentine Retriever,
Hall's Dry Dock, Eagle Harbor, Wash.
“Yes; that was a grave oversight sending you to Antofagasta
without docking you first. Express my appreciation of Murphy's
forethought in killing some of the worms. Am not kind of owner
that lets a ship go to glory to make dividends. Keep your
vessel in top-notch shape at all times, though I realize this
instruction unnecessary to you. Give the old girl all that is
coming to her, including two coats X. & Y. copper paint.
Replace all planking that looks suspicious.
Alden P. Ricks.
“I guess that's friendly enough,” he soliloquized. “I think he'll
understand. I don't have to crawl in the dirt to let him know I'm
sorry.”
Cappy had recovered his composure by the following morning and was
addressing Mr. Skinner as “Skinner, my dear boy,” when another telegram
from Matt Peasley created a very distinct variation in his mental
compass. It ran as follows:
Alden P. Ricks,
258 California St.
San Francisco.
X. & Y. copper paint no good. That brand used last time; hence
worms got to her quickly. Giving her two coats O. & Z. Costs
more, but does the business. Renewed about a dozen planks.
Repair bill about offsets profit on that infernal nitrate.
Your apology accepted, but do not say that again!
Peasley.
“'Your apology is accepted!'” Cappy's voice rose, shrill with anger.
“Why, the infernal--er--er--porpoise! Me apologize to a man I employ!
By jingo, I'd fire him first! Yes, sir--fire him like that!” The old man
snapped his fingers.
“Really, Skinner, I don't know what I'm going to do about the man
Peasley. I want to befriend him, because he's one of my own people, so
to speak; but I greatly fear, Skinner, I shall have to rough him. Here
he is, disputing with me--with me, Skinner--the relative merits of
copper paint. And not only disputing, sir, but disobeying my specific
instructions. Also, he permits himself the luxury of criticism.
Well! I'll not fire him this time; but, by the gods, I'll give him a
blowing-up he'll remember. Skinner, send in a stenographer.”
“Take letter,” the old man ordered presently, and proceeded to dictate:
Captain Matthew Peasley,
Master Barkentine Retriever,
Care Rainier M. & L. Co.,
Tacoma, Washington.
Sir:--Your night letter of the fifth is before me and treasured
for its unparalleled effrontery.
Please be advised that in future, when an extraordinary outlay
of cash for your vessel's accounts is contemplated, this office
should first be consulted. When, in your judgment, your vessel
requires docking, repairs, new spars, canvas, and so on, you
will apprise us before proceeding to run up a bill of expense
on your owners. Your business is to navigate your vessel.
Spending money judiciously is a fine art which no sailor, to my
knowledge, has ever acquired.
Though admitting that the vessel needed docking, I maintain you
should have wired us of that fact, whereupon we would have
ordered you to the dry dock patronized by this company. It is
customary for owners to express a preference for dry docks and
copper paint; and in presuming to go counter to my specific
instructions in the matter of paint you are prejudicing your
future prospects with this company.
Another exhibition of your arrogance, impudence, general bad
manners and lack of knowledge of the ethics of your profession
will result in prompt dismissal from the service of the Blue
Star Navigation Company.
Yours, and so on,
Alden P. Ricks, President