During the week that succeeded, Cappy Ricks did not once mention the
subject of the Retriever and her recalcitrant skipper and mate; and Mr.
Skinner argued from this that all was well. Finally one day Cappy came
into the office and paused beside the general manager's desk. He was
grinning like a boy.
“Well, Skinner,” he piped. “I've just come from the Merchants' Exchange
and I see by the blackboard that our Retriever cleared for Antofagasta
yesterday.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Skinner replied politely. “So you found a captain for her.
Whom did you send?”
“Nobody,” the old man cackled. “Matt Peasley took her out, and the
manager of the Rainier mill wires me that Murphy went with him as chief
kicker. What do you think of that?”
“Why, I'm--er--satisfied if you are, sir.”
“Well, you can bet I'm satisfied. If I wasn't I'd have a revenue cutter
out after the man Peasley and his mate right now. By golly, Skinner,” he
piped, and slapped his wizened flank, “I tell you I've worked this deal
pretty slick, if I do say it myself. And all on dead reckoning--dead
reckoning, and not a single day of demurrage!”
“Oh! So you wired Peasley and the mate and asked them to go back to work
and forget they were discharged?” Mr. Skinner suggested witheringly.
“Skinner, on my word, you grow worse every day. You've been with me, man
and boy, twenty-odd years, and in all that time you never saw anybody
cover me with blood, did you?”
“No, sir.”
“And you never will. Why, I managed this affair by simply forgetting all
about it! When you're in a jam, Skinner, always let the other fellow
do the talking. I just sat tight until I had a telegram from the man
Peasley, informing me that the vessel would be loaded in two days and
that his successor had not appeared as yet. I threw that telegram in my
wastebasket; and when the vessel was loaded I had another telegram from
Peasley, saying that the vessel was loaded, that his successor was still
missing, and the mill manager was kicking and insisting that the ship be
hauled away from the dock to make room for a steam schooner which wanted
to load. So I filed that telegram in the wastebasket also. It was a
night letter, delivered in the morning.
“When Peasley didn't get an answer by noon he wired again, saying that,
as a favor to me, he would haul the Retriever into the stream, but would
accept no responsibility for delay thereafter. He said further that, as
a courtesy to me and his successor, he was shipping a crew that day
in order that there might be no delay in sailing when the new captain
arrived; so I thought I had better reply to that telegram, Skinner--and
I did!”
“What did you say, Mr. Ricks?”
“I said: 'Please do not annoy me with your telegrams. You were fired
a week ago, but it seems difficult for you to realize that fact. If
demurrage results through my failure to get new skipper there in time,
that is no skin off your nose. Your pay goes on until you are relieved,
and you will be relieved when I get good and ready.' That telegram
did the business, Skinner. He received it the day before yesterday and
yesterday he towed out!”
Cappy Ricks burst into a shrill senile cackle that was really good to
hear. As they grow old most men lose that capacity for a hearty laugh,
but Cappy's perversity had kept him young at heart. The tears of mirth
cascaded down his seamed old countenance now, and he had to sit down and
have his laugh out.
“Oh, thunder!” he panted. “Really, Skinner--there's so much fun in
business I wonder why a man can retire--just because he's made his pile!
Skinner, I had it on the man Peasley a thousand miles--and he never
guessed it! Dear, dear me! You see, Skinner, when he wired me he would
not accept responsibility for demurrage to the vessel after she was
loaded and hauled into the stream, he forgot that he had to accept
responsibility for the vessel himself until his successor should arrive!
“Of course, the man Murphy could quit any time he desired; but if the
skipper deserted the ship before being properly relieved, and then
something happened to the vessel and I preferred charges against him,
the inspectors might be induced to revoke his license--and he realized
that. The knowledge made him hopping mad, Skinner; and when he got my
telegram I knew he would begin to figure out some plan to make me
mad! And, of course, I knew Murphy would help him out--the Irish are
imaginative and vindictive; and--oh, dear me, Skinner--read that!” And
Cappy handed his general manager the following telegram:
You are right. I will be relieved when I get good and ready,
and I will not be ready until I get back from Antofagasta.
Shipped crew yesterday afternoon. All arrived drunk. Next
morning all hands sober. Realizing predicament, riot resulted.
Fearing lose crew, Murphy and I manhandled and locked in
fo'castle. When your telegram arrived it found Murphy minus
front tooth, myself black eye. Can stand injury, but not
insult. Hence you are stuck with us for another voyage,
whether you want us or not. Will have towed out by time you
receive this. Go to Halifax!
Peasley.
Mr. Skinner's face was cold and austere as he handed this telegram back
to Cappy.
“So you made peace with honor, eh?” he sneered.
“Peace your grandmother!” Cappy chirped. “This war goes on until I get
a letter from the man Peasley. Skinner, he and Murphy think they've done
something wonderfully brilliant. When I wired him he would be relieved
when I got good and ready it did him an awful lot of good to throw the
words back in my face. Sure, Skinner! They think they're giving Cappy
Ricks the merry ha-ha!”
“Well, of course, sir,”' said Mr. Skinner, “if this sort of horseplay
is your fun--if it's your notion of business--I have no comment. You own
fifteen-sixteenths of the Retriever, and you can afford to pay for your
fancies; but if it was the last act of my life I'd fire that man Peasley
in Callao and let him get home as best he could.”
“Yes; I know,” Cappy replied bitterly. “You fired him in Cape Town
once--and how did he come home? He came home in the cabin of the
Retriever--that's how he came home; and the Terrible Swede I sent to
thrash him and fire him came home under hatches. Yes; you'd do a lot of
things, Skinner--in your mind.”
Mr. Skinner pounded his desk savagely. Cappy's retort made him boiling
mad.
“Well, I'll bet I'd do something,” he rasped. “I'd make that bucko
suffer or I'd know the reason why.”
“Skinner, that's just what we're going to do--just what we're doing, in
fact. One of my ancestors sailed with the late John Paul Jones and ever
since the Ricks' family motto has been: 'I have not yet begun to fight.'
Now listen to reason, Skinner. The Retriever just came off dry-dock,
didn't she? Well, it stands to reason she was dirty after that last
cargo of creosoted piling; and it stands to reason, also, that the man
Peasley slicked her up with white paint until she looked like an Easter
bride. A Scandinavian doesn't give a hoot if his vessel is tight, well
found and ready for sea; but a Yankee takes a tremendous pride in
his ship and likes to keep her looking like a yacht. And just think,
Skinner, how the man Peasley must have felt when he came off dry dock,
all clean and nice, and then had to slop her up with another cargo of
creosoted piling? Just think of that, Skinner!” and again he commenced
his insane cackle.
“I have other, and more important things to think about,” Mr. Skinner
retorted icily. As a business man he was opposed to levity in the
office. “What are your plans with reference to the Retriever? Do you
wish to bring her back from Antofagasta in ballast?”
“Why, certainly not. Hunt a cargo for her, Skinner. We might just as
well let the man Peasley know that though he's gone he's not forgotten.
Use the cable freely and see if you can't pick up something for the
return trip that will make those two firebrands sick at the stomach.”
A month later Mr. Skinner stepped into Cappy's sanctum.
“Well,” he announced. “I've got a return cargo for the Retriever.”
“What have you got?” Cappy demanded anxiously; and Mr. Skinner told him.
“No?” said Cappy incredulously.
“Yes!” Mr. Skinner assured him.
Cappy's laughter testified to his hearty approval.
“Skinner, my dear boy,” he cried. “I don't know what I'd do without
you.”
And then he laid his wicked old head on his desk and laughed until he
wept. Indeed, Mr. Skinner so far forgot his code as to laugh with him.
“We'll stink those two vagabonds--those maritime outlaws--out of the
ship,” he declared.