In his private office Cappy Ricks sat on his spine, with his old legs on
his desk and his head sunk forward on his breast. His eyes were closed;
to the casual observer he would have appeared to be dozing. Any one of
his employees, however, would have known Cappy was merely thinking. It
was his habit to close his eyes and sit very still whenever he faced a
tussle with a tough proposition.
Presently an unmistakably feminine kiss, surreptitiously delivered,
roused Cappy from his meditations. He opened his eyes and beheld his
daughter Florence, a radiant debutante of twenty, and the sole prop of
her eccentric parent's declining years.
“Daddy dear,” she announced, “there's something wrong with my bank
account. I've just come from the Marine National Bank and they wouldn't
cash my check.”
“Of course not,” Cappy replied, beaming affectionately. “They telephoned
about five minutes ago that you're into the red again; so I've
instructed Skinner to deposit five thousand to your credit.”
“Oh, but I want ten thousand!” she protested.
“Can't have it, Florry!” he declared. “The old limousine will have to
do. Go slow, my dear--go slow! Why, they're offering random cargoes
freely along the street for nine dollars. Logs cost six dollars, with a
dollar and a half to manufacture--that's seven and a half; and three and
a half water freight added--that's eleven dollars. Eleven-dollar lumber
selling for nine dollars, and no business at that! I haven't had a
vessel dividend in six months--”
Mr. Skinner entered.
“Mr. Ricks,” he announced, “Captain Peasley, late of the Retriever, is
in the outer office. Shall I tell him to wait?”
“No. Haven't we been itching to see each other the past eighteen months?
Show him in immediately, Skinner.” Cappy turned to his daughter. “I want
to show you something my dear,” he said; “something you're not likely
to meet very often in your set--and that's a he-man. Do you remember
hearing me tell the story of the mate that thrashed the big Swede
skipper I sent to Cape Town to thrash him and bring the vessel home?”
“Do you mean the captain that never writes letters?”
“That's the man. The fellow I've been having so much fun with--the Nervy
Matt that tried to hornswoggle me with my own photograph. Passed it
off as his own, Florry! He hails from my old home town, and he's a mere
boy--Come in!”
The door opened to admit Matt Peasley; and as he paused just inside
the entrance, slightly embarrassed at finding himself under the cool
scrutiny of the trimmest, most dashing little craft he had ever seen,
Miss Florry decided that her father was right. Here, indeed, was a
specimen of the genus Homo she had not hitherto seen. Six feet three he
was, straight from shoulder to hip, broad-chested and singularly well
formed and graceful for such a big man.
He wore stout shoes, without toe caps--rather old-fashioned footgear,
Florry thought; but they were polished brightly. A tailor-made,
double-breasted blue serge suit, close-hauled and demoded; a soft white
silk shirt, with non-detachable collar; a plain black silk four-in-hand
tie, and a uniform cap, set a little back and to one side on thick,
black, glossy, wavy hair, completed his attire. He had his right hand in
his trousers pocket; his left was on the doorknob. He glanced from her
to her father.
“He's handsome,” thought Florry. “What a beautiful tan on his throat! He
looks anything but the brute he is. But he hasn't any manners. Oh, dear!
He stands there like a graven image.”
Matt Peasley's hand came out of his pocket; off came his cap and he
bowed slightly.
“I am Captain Peasley,” he said.
Cappy Ricks, leaning forward on the edge of his swivel chair, with head
slightly bent, made a long appraisal of the young man over the rims of
his spectacles.
“Ahem!” he said. “Huh! Harumph!” Ensued another terrible silence. Then:
“Young scoundrel!” Cappy cried. “Infernal young scoundrel!”
“I accept the nomination,” said Matt dryly. “You'd never know me from
my photograph, would you, sir? I'd know you from yours, though--in a
minute!”
Miss Florry tittered audibly, thus drawing on herself the attention of
the skipper, who was audacious enough to favor her with a solemn wink.
“None of your jokes with me, sir!” said Cappy severely.
“That's just what I say, sir; none of your jokes on me! Those green
hides were absolutely indecent.”
“Matt, you're a fresh young fellow,” Cappy charged, struggling to
suppress a smile.
“And I was raised on salt water too,” Matt added seriously.
Cappy laughed.
“You're a Thomaston Peasley,” he declared, and shook hands. “Ever hear
of Ethan Peasley back there?”
“He was my uncle, sir. He was drowned at sea.”
“He was a boyhood chum of mine, Matt. Permit me to present my daughter,
Miss Florence.”
Miss Florence favored the captain with her most bewitching smile and
nodded perkily. Matt held out his great hand, not realizing that a
bow and a conventional “Delighted, I'm sure!” was the correct thing
in Florry's set. Florry was about to accept his great paw when Cappy
yelled:
“Don't take it, Florry! He'll squeeze your hand to jelly.”
“I won't,” Matt declared, embarrassed. “I might press it a little--”
“I know. You pressed mine a little, and if I live to be a thousand years
old I'll never shake hands with you again.”
“I'll give her my finger then,” Matt declared, and forthwith held out
his index finger, which Florry shook gravely.
“Well, well, boy; sit down, sit down,” Cappy commanded briskly, “while
I tell you the plans I have for your future. I ought to have fired you
long ago--”
“I shall always be happy to testify that you tried hard enough,” Matt
interrupted, and Florry's silvery laugh filled the room. Cappy winced,
but had to join with her in the laugh on himself.
“For the sake of your Uncle Ethan, and the fact that you're one of our
own boys, Matt,” he continued, “I'll retain you if you behave yourself.
As I believe I wired you, I'm going to put you in steam.”
“You didn't consult me about it, sir; but, to please you, I'll tackle
steam. I'm very grateful for your interest in me, Mr. Ricks.”
“Huh! That's not true, Matt. You're not grateful; and if you are you
have no business to be. I paid you a hundred and twenty-five dollars a
month to skipper the Retriever; you earned every cent of it and I made
you fight for the job; so, no thanks to me. And I know for a fact that
you and Mr. Murphy cursed me up hill and down dale--”
“Oh, Captain Peasley!” Miss Ricks interrupted. “Did you curse my
father?”
“She's trying to fluster me,” Matt thought. “She thinks I'm a farmer.”
Aloud he said: “Well, you see, Miss Ricks, I had to work for him.
However, Mr. Murphy and I have forgiven him. We're both willing to let
bygones be bygones.”
“Young scoundrel!” piped Cappy, delighted beyond measure, for he was
used to unimaginative, rather dull skippers, who revered their berths
and stood before him, hat in hand, plainly uncomfortable in the presence
of the creator of the payroll. “Dashed young scoundrel! Well, we had
some fun anyhow, didn't we, Matt? And, as the young fellows say, I got
your Capricorn. Very well, then. We'll make a new start, Matthew; and
if you pay attention to business it's barely possible you may amount to
something yet.
“I'm going to provide a berth for you, my boy, as second mate on the
dirtiest, leakiest little bumboat you ever saw--our steam schooner
Gualala. She's a nautical disgrace and carries three hundred thousand
feet of lumber--runs into the dogholes on the Mendocino Coast and takes
in cargo on a trolley running from the top of the cliff to the masthead.
It'll be your job to get out in a small boat to pick up the moorings;
and that'll be no picnic in the wintertime, because you lie just outside
the edge of the breakers. But you'll learn how to pick up moorings,
Matt, and you'll learn how to turn a steamer round on her heels also.”
“I never did that kind of work before,” Matt protested. “I stand a good
chance of getting drowned, don't I?”
“Of course! But better men than you do it; so don't kick. In the spring
I'll shift you to a larger boat; but I want you to have one winter along
the Mendocino Coast. It'll about break your heart, but it will do you
an awful lot of good, Matt. When you finish in the Gualala, you'll go
in the Florence Ricks and run from Grays Harbor to San Pedro. Then, when
you get your first mate's license, I'll put you in our Tillicum, where
you'll learn how to handle a big vessel; and by the time you get your
master's license for steam you'll be ready to start for Philadelphia
to bring out the finest freighter on this Coast. How does that prospect
strike you?”
Matt's eyes glowed. He forgot the two years' apprenticeship and thought
only of the prize Cappy was dangling before him.
“If faithful service will be a guaranty of my appreciation--” he began;
but Cappy interrupted.
“Nonsense! Not another peep out of you. You'd better take a little rest
now for a couple of weeks and get your stomach in order after all that
creosote. Meantime, if you should need any money, Skinner will fix you
up.”
“I'll not need any, thank you. I saved sixteen hundred dollars while I
was in the Retriever--”
“Fine! Good boy!” exclaimed Cappy, delighted beyond measure at this
proof of Matt's Yankee thrift and sobriety. “But don't save it, Matt.
Invest it. Put it in a mortgage for three years. I know a captain now
that wants to borrow a thousand dollars at eight per cent. to buy an
interest in one of our vessels. You shall loan it to him, Matt, and
he'll secure you with the insurance. Perfectly safe. Guarantee it
myself. Bring your thousand dollars round in the morning, Matt.
Understand? No fooling now! Make your money work for you. You bet! If
I'm not here tomorrow leave the money with Skinner.”
“Mr. Skinner is the general manager, isn't he?”
“Yes, and a mighty clever one, too. Don't you monkey with Skinner, young
man. He doesn't like you and he doesn't bluff worth a cent; and if you
ever have a run-in with him while I'm away and he fires you--well, I
guess I'd have to stand by Skinner, Matt. I can't afford to lose him.
Cold-blooded dog--no sense of humor; but honest--a pig for work, and
capable.”
“I'll be very careful, sir,” Matt assured him. “Thank you for the
vacation, the promised job, and the chance to invest my thousand dollars
at eight per cent. And, now that my affairs are out of the way, let's
talk about yours. I think I can get you a four-year charter for your
steamer Lion--”
“Matt,” said Cappy Ricks impressively, “if you can get that brute of a
boat off my hands for four years, and at a figure that will pay me
ten per cent. on her cost price, I'll tell you what--I'll pay you a
commission.”
“I don't want any commission, sir, for working for the interests of my
employer. What do you reckon it costs a day to operate the Lion?”
Cappy drew a scratch pad toward him and commenced to figure.
“She'll burn a hundred and seventy barrels of crude oil a day, at
sixty-five cents a barrel. That's about a hundred and ten dollars. Her
wages will average seventy-five dollars a day; it costs twenty dollars a
day to feed her crew; incidentals, say twenty dollars a day;
insurance, say, four dollars a day; wireless, three and a half dollars;
depreciation, say, two dollars and seventy-five cents a day; total in
round figures two hundred and thirty-five dollars a day. I ought to get
four hundred dollars a day for her; but in a pinch like the present I'd
be glad to get her off my hands at three hundred and fifty dollars. But,
no matter what the price may be, Matt, I'm afraid we can't charter her.”
“Why?”
“Because the Black Butte Lumber Company owns her sister, the Unicorn;
she's a burden on their back, as the Lion is on mine, there's war to the
finish between Hudner, the Black Butte manager, and myself, and he'll
get the business. He's a dog, Matt--always cutting prices below the
profit point and raising hob in the market. Infernal marplot! He stole
the best stenographer in the United States from me here about three
years ago.”
“Where is Hudner's office?” Matt queried.
“In this building--sixth floor.” Matt rose and started for the door.
“Where are you going now, Matt?” Cappy piped.
“Why, you say the Unicorn will compete against the Lion for this charter
I have in mind. That is true enough. I know the Black Butte Lumber
Company will be approached for the Unicorn; so I'm going to get the
Unicorn out of the way and give you a clear field with the Lion. I
figured it all out coming down on the train.” And, without waiting to
listen to Cappy's protestations, Matt left the office.