Cappy Ricks lay back in his swivel chair, his feet on his desk and
his eyes closed. He was thinking deeply, for he had something to think
about. Coming in from his club the night before he had observed that
Florry was entertaining company in the billiard room, as the crash of
pool balls testified. He had scarcely reached his room on the second
floor, however, when the pool game came to an end and he heard voices
in the drawing room, followed presently by a few random chords struck on
the piano, and a resonant baritone was raised in the strangest song ever
heard in that drawing room--a deep-sea chantey.
Cappy was no great shakes on music, but before he had listened to the
first verse of Rolling Home he knew Captain Matt Peasley for the singer
and suspected his daughter of faking the accompaniment. He listened at
the head of the stairs and presently was treated to a rendition of a
lilting little Swedish ballad, followed by one or two selections from
the Grand Banks and the doleful song of the Ferocious Whale and the Five
Brave Boys. Then he heard Florry laugh happily.
Cappy was thinking of the curious inflection in that laugh now. Once
before he had heard it--when he courted Florry's dead mother; and
his old heart swelled a little with pain at the remembrance. He was
wondering just what to do about that laugh when Matt was announced.
“Show him in,” said Cappy; and Matt Peasley entered.
“Sit down, Matt,” said Cappy kindly. “Yes, I sent for you. The Gualala
will be in to-morrow and you've had a fine two-weeks' vacation. What's
more, I think you've enjoyed it, Matt, and I'm glad you did; but now
it's time to get down to business again. I wanted to tell you that the
skipper of the Gualala will expect you to be aboard at seven o'clock
to-morrow morning.”
Matt studied the pattern of the office rug a minute and then faced Cappy
bravely.
“I'm obliged to you, Mr. Ricks, more than I can say; but the fact of the
matter is I've changed my mind about going to sea again. It's a dog's
life, sir, and I'm tired of it.”
“Tired at twenty-three?” said Cappy gently.
Matt flushed a little.
“Well, it does appear to me kind of foolish for a man with an income of
more than eleven hundred dollars a month to be going to sea as second
mate of a dirty little steam schooner at seventy-five dollars a month.”
“Well, I can hardly blame you,” said Cappy gently. “I suppose I'd feel
the same way about it myself if I stood in your shoes.”
“I'm sure you would,” Matt replied.
Fell a silence, broken presently by Cappy's:
“Huh! Ahem! Harump!” Then: “When I came in from my club last night,
Matt, I believe Florry had a caller.”
“Yes, sir,” said Matt; “I was there.”
“Huh! I got a squint at you. Am I mistaken in assuming that you were
wearing a dress suit?”
“No, sir.”
“Whadja mean by wasting your savings on a dress suit?” Cappy exploded.
“Whadja mean by courting my Florry, eh? Tell me that! Give you an inch
and you'll take an ell! Infernal young scoundrel!”
“Well,” said Matt humbly, “I intended to speak to you about Miss Florry.
Of course now that I'm going to live ashore--”
“What can a big lubber like you do ashore?” Cappy shrilled.
“Why, I might get a job with some shipping firm--”
“You needn't count on a job ashore with the Blue Star Navigation
Company,” Cappy railed. “You needn't think--”
“Have I your permission to call on Miss Florry again?” Matt asked
humbly.
“No!” thundered Cappy. “You're as nervy as they make 'em! No, sir!
You'll go to sea in the Gualala to-morrow morning--d'ye hear? That's
what you'll do!”
But Matt Peasley shook his head.
“I'm through with the sea,” he said firmly. “I have an income of eleven
hundred dollars a month--”
“Oh, is that so?” Cappy sneered. “Well, for the sake of argument, we'll
admit you have the income. We don't know how long you'll have it; but
we'll credit your account on the books while we're able to collect it
from the charterers, and I guess we'll collect it while the Unicorn is
afloat. But having an income and being able to spend it, my boy, are two
different things; so in order to set your mind at ease, let me tell you
something: I'm not going to give you a cent out of that charter deal--”
Matt Peasley sprang up, his big body aquiver with rage.
“You'd double-cross me!” he roared. “Mr. Ricks, if you weren't--” He
paused.
“Shut up!” snapped Cappy, undaunted. “I know what you're going to say.
If I wasn't an old man I'd let you make a jolly jackanapes of yourself.
Now listen to me! I said I wasn't going to let you have a cent out of
that charter deal--and I mean it. If you couldn't say Boo! from now
until the day you finger a dollar of that income you'd be as dumb as an
oyster by the time I hand you the check. What do you know about money?”
he piped shrilly. “You big, overgrown baby! Yah! You've had a little
taste of business and turned a neat deal, and now you think you're a
wonder, don't you? Like everybody else, you'll keep on thinking it until
some smart fellow takes it all away from you again; so, in order to cure
you, I'm not going to let you have it!”
“I'll sue you--”
“You can sue your head off, young man, and see how much good it will
do you. You surrendered to me your option that Hudner gave you on the
Unicorn, and you failed to procure from me in writing an understanding
of the agreement between us regarding this split. You haven't a leg to
stand on!”
Matt Peasley hung his head.
“I didn't think I had to take business precautions with you, sir,” he
said.
“You should take business precautions with anybody and everybody.”
“I thought I was dealing with a man of honor. Everybody has always told
me that Cappy Ricks'--”
“How dare you call me Cappy?”
“--word was as good as his bond.”
“And so it is, my boy. You'll get your money, but you'll wait for it;
and meantime I'll invest it for you. As I said before, you've had a
taste of business and found it pretty sweet--so sweet, in fact, that
you think you're a business man. Well, hereafter you'll remember, when
you're making a contract with anybody, to get it down in black and
white; and then you'll have something to fight about if you're not
satisfied. Now, by the time you're skipper of steam you'll be worth a
nice little pile of money; you can buy a piece of the big freighter
I'm going to build for you and it'll pay you thirty per cent. Remember,
Matt, I always make my skippers own a piece of the vessel they command.
That gives 'em an interest in their job and they don't waste their
owner's money.”
“I won't be dictated to!” Matt cried desperately. “I'm free, white
and--”
“Twenty-three!” jeered Cappy. “You big, awkward pup! How dare you growl
at me! I know what's good for you. You go to sea on the Gualala.”
“I must decline--”
“Oh, all right! Have it your own way,” said Cappy. “But, at the rate
you've been blowing your money in on Florry for the past two weeks, I'll
bet your wad has dwindled since you struck town. I've put that thousand
dollars out on mortgage for you, and Skinner has the mortgage in the
company safe, where you can't get at it to hock it when your last dollar
is gone. And he has the bond there too; so it does appear to me, Matt,
that if you want any money to spend you'll have to get a job and earn
it. I have the bulge on you, young fellow, and don't you forget it!”
Matt Peasley rose, walked to the window and stood looking down into
California Street. He was so mad there were tears in his eyes, and he
longed to say things to Cappy Ricks--only, for the sake of Miss Florence
Ricks, he could not abuse her sire. Once he half turned, only to meet
Cappy's glittering eyes fixed on him with a steadiness of purpose that
argued only too well the fact that the old man could not be bluffed,
cajoled, bribed or impressed.
Presently Matt Peasley turned from the window.
“Where does the Gualala lie, sir?” he asked gruffly.
“Howard Street Wharf, Number One, Matt,” Cappy replied cheerfully. “I
think she had bedbugs in her cabin, but I'm not sure. I wouldn't go
within a block of her myself.”
Matt gazed sorrowfully at the rug. Too well he realized that Cappy had
the whip hand and was fully capable of cracking the whip; so presently
he said:
“Well, I've met bedbugs before, Mr. Ricks. I'll go aboard in the
morning.”
“I'm glad to hear it, Matt. And another thing: I like you, Matt, but not
well enough for a son-in-law. Remember, my boy, you're only a sailor on
a steam schooner now--so it won't be necessary for you to look aloft.
You understand, do you not? You want to remember your position, my boy.”
Matt turned and bent upon Cappy a slow, smoldering gaze. Cappy almost
quivered. Then slowly the rage died out in Matt Peasley's fine eyes and
a lilting, boyish grin spread over his face, for he was one of those
rare human beings who can smile, no matter what the prospect, once he
has definitely committed himself to a definite course of action. Only
the years of discipline and his innate respect for gray hairs kept him
from bluntly informing Cappy Ricks that he might forthwith proceed to
chase himself! Instead he said quietly:
“Very well, sir. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, sir,” snapped Cappy.
At the door Matt paused an instant, for he was young and he could not
retire without firing a shot. He fired it now with his eyes--a glance
of cool disdain and defiance that would have been worth a dollar of
anybody's money to see. Cappy had to do something to keep from laughing.
“Out, you rebel!” he yelled. The door closed with a crash, and Cappy
Ricks took down the telephone receiver and called up his daughter.
“Florry,” he said gently, “I want to tell you something.”
“Fire away, Pop!” she challenged.
“It's about that fellow Peasley,” Cappy replied coldly. “I wish you
wouldn't have that big, awkward dub calling at the house, Florry. He'll
fall over the furniture the first thing you know, and do some damage. I
think a lot of him as a sailor, but that's about as far as my affection
extends; and if you insist on having him call at the house, my dear, my
authority over him as an employee will suffer and I'll be forced to fire
the fellow. Of course I realize what a pleasant boy he is; but then you
don't know sailors like I do. They're a low lot at heart, Florry, and
this fellow Peasley is no exception to the general rule.”
Cappy paused to test the effect of this broadside. There was a little
gasp from the other end of the wire; then a click as his daughter hung
up, too outraged to reply.
Cappy's kindly eyes twinkled merrily as he replaced the receiver on the
hook.
“What a skookum son-in-law to take up the business when I let go!” he
murmured happily. “Oh, Matt, I'm so blamed sorry for you; but it's just
got to be done. If you're going to build up the Blue Star Navigation
Company after the Panama Canal is opened for business, you've got to
know shipping; and to know it from center to circumference. It isn't
sufficient that you be master of sail and steam, any ocean, any tonnage.
You've got to learn the business from the rules as promulgated by little
old Alden P. Ricks, the slave driver. There's hope for you, sonny. You
have already learned to obey.”
Mr. Skinner bustled in with the mail.
“Skinner,” said Cappy plaintively, “what's the best way to drive
obstinate people south?”
“Head them north,” said Mr. Skinner.
“I'm doing it,” said Cappy dreamily.