Mr. Skinner entered Cappy Ricks' office bearing an envelope marked
“Photo. Do not crush or bend!” From the announcement in the upper
right-hand corner the general manager deduced that the photograph was
from Matt Peasley.
“Well, here's Captain Peasley's picture, Mr. Ricks,” he announced.
“Ah! Splendid. Prompt, isn't he?” Cappy tore open the envelope, drew
forth the photograph, scrutinized it carefully and then laid it
face down on his desk, while he got out his spectacles, cleaned them
carefully, adjusted them and gazed at the photograph once more.
“Ahem! Hu-m-m-m! Harump-h-h-h! Well, Skinner, life is certainly full of
glad surprises,” he announced presently, and added--“particularly where
that man Peasley is concerned. I never did see the beat of that fellow.”
“May I see his photograph, sir?” Mr. Skinner pleaded.
“Certainly,” and Cappy passed it to the general manager, who glanced
once at it and smiled down whimsically at Cappy.
“Yes, I agree with you, Mr. Ricks,” he said. “Of all the surprises that
man Peasley has handed us, this is the greatest.”
Cappy nodded and smiled a little prescient smile. “Skinner,” he said,
“send in a stenographer. I'm going to send him a telegram.”
He did. Matt Peasley blinked when he got it, and for the first time
since he had commenced exchanging telegrams and cablegrams with the
peculiar Mr. Ricks he was thoroughly non-plussed--so much so, in fact,
that he called his right bower, Michael J. Murphy, into consultation.
“Mike,” he said, and handed the mate the telegram, “what in the world do
you suppose the old duffer means by that?”
Mr. Murphy read:
“Matt, I always knew you were young, but I had no suspicion you
were a child in arms until I received your photograph.”
“Serves you right,” the mate declared. “I told you to send the photo of
an OLD man.”
“But I did, Mike. I sent him a picture of an old pappy-guy sort of man,
with long, mutton-chop whiskers, glasses and an old-fashioned collar as
tall as the taffrail.”
“It beats my time then what he's driving at, Captain Matt. But then one
can never tell what Cappy Ricks is up to. I've heard he's a great
hand to have his little joke, so I daresay that telegram is meant for
sarcasm.”
Matt had a horrifying inspiration. “I know what's wrong,” he cried
bitterly. “He thinks I'm so old I ought to be retired, and that telegram
is in the nature of a hint that a letter, asking for my resignation, is
on the way now.”
“Why--why--why?” Mr. Murphy stuttered, “did you send him the picture of
Methuselah himself? Heaven's sake, skipper, there's a happy medium, you
know. I meant for you to pick yourself out a man of about fifty-five,
and here you've slipped him a patriarch of ninety. Sarcasm! I should say
so.”
They stared at each other a few seconds; then Mr. Murphy had an equally
disturbing inspiration.
“By Neptune!” he suggested, “maybe you sent him the picture of somebody
he knows!”
“Well, in that case, Mike, I'm not going to hang on the hook of
suspicion. Maybe I can find out whose picture I sent,” and away Matt
went up town to the photograph gallery. When he returned ten minutes
later Mr. Murphy, sighting him a block in the offing, knew the skipper
of the barkentine Retriever for a broken man! Beyond doubt he had
shipped a full cargo of grief.
“Well?” he queried as Matt hove alongside. “Did you find out?”
Matt nodded gloomily.
“Who?” Mr. Murphy demanded peremptorily.
“Cappy Ricks!” Matt almost wailed.
“NO!” Mr. Murphy roared.
“Yes! The old scoundrel was up here three years ago, visiting this
mill--you know, Mike, he owns it--and the Retriever was here loading at
the time. He and Captain Kendall were close friends, and they went over
to that photograph shop, had their pictures taken and swapped--and like
a poor, helpless, luckless boob I had to come along and buy the sample
picture the photographer hung in his case. It never occurred to me to
ask questions--and I might have known nobody but a prominent citizen
ever gets into a show-case--”
“Glory, glory, hallelujah,” Mr. Murphy crooned in a deep, chain-locker
voice, and fled from the skipper's wrath.
An hour later, in the privacy of his cabin, Matt Peasley took his pen in
hand and wrote to Cappy Ricks:
Mr. Alden P. Ricks,
Dear Sir:--
I herewith tender my resignation as master of the barkentine
Retriever, same to take effect on my return from Sydney--or
before I sail, if you desire. If I do not hear from you before
I sail I shall assume that it will be all right to quit when I
get back from Australia.
I will not be twenty-three years old until the Fourth of July.
I was afraid you wouldn't trust me with a big ship like the
Retriever if you knew; so I sent you a photograph I purchased
for fifty cents from the local photographer. I guess that's
all--except that you couldn't find a better man to take my
place than Mr. Murphy. He has had the experience.
Yours truly,
Matt Peasley.
There were tears in his eyes as he dropped that letter into the
mail box. The Blue Star Navigation Company owned the Retriever,
but--but--well she was Matt Peasley's ship and he loved her as men learn
to love their homes. It broke his heart to think of giving her up.
“Skinner,” said Cappy Ricks, “I've got a letter from the man Peasley
at last; and now, by golly, I can quit and take a vacation. Send in
a stenographer.” The stenographer entered. “Take telegram--direct
message,” he ordered, and commenced to dictate:
Captain Matthew Peasley,
Your resignation accepted. You are too almighty good for a
windjammer, Matthew. You need more room for the development of
your talent. Give Murphy the ship, with my compliments, and
tell him I've enjoyed the fight because it went to a knock-out.
Report to me at this office as soon as possible. You belong
in steam. A second mate's berth waiting for you. In a year
you will be first mate of steam; a year later you will be
master of steam, at two-fifty a month, and I will have a
four-million-foot freighter waiting for you if you make good.
The picture was a bully joke; but I could not laugh, Matt. It
is so long since I was a boy.
Cappy.
“Send that right away, like a good girl,” he ordered. “He's about loaded
and he may have towed out before the telegram reaches him. Or, better
still, send the message in duplicate--one copy to the mill and the other
in care of the custom-house at Port Townsend. He'll have to touch in
there to clear the ship.”
He walked into Mr. Skinner's office.
“Skinner,” he said, “Murphy has the Retriever, and you're in charge of
the shipping. Attend to the transfer of authority before she gets out of
the Sound.”