Having, as he thought, evaded the spirit of Mr. Skinner's ultimatum
while conforming to its literal terms, Cappy Ricks hurried home leaving
his general manager a stunned and horrified man. In this instance,
however, Cappy had erred in his strategy. Skinner was calm,
cold-blooded, suave, politic and deferential, but in his kind of fight
he never bluffed. He never played his hand until he had sufficient
trumps to take the odd trick.
He looked ahead now, into the not very distant future, and saw Matt
Peasley, husband of the heiress to the Ricks millions, giving him
orders--and the vision did not sit well on the general manager's
stomach. Consequently, Mr. Skinner decided for a test of strength at
once.
Accordingly, when Cappy Ricks came down to the office the following
morning, Mr. Skinner came into the old fellow's sanctum and requested an
interview.
“Fire away, my boy,” said Cappy amiably, yet with a queer sinking
feeling in his vitals, for he did not like the look in Skinner's eye;
and something told him there was blood on the moon.
“With reference to this rowdy, Peasley, whom you tell me you are going
to make port captain--”
“I also told you, Skinner, my boy, that he is to be my son-in-law,”
Cappy interrupted, like a good general bringing up his heavy artillery
prior to ordering a charge. “I beg of you, Skinner, whatever your
animosities, to bear in mind the fact that my daughter could not
possibly engage herself to a rowdy.”
“Out of respect to you and Miss Florence I shall not indulge in
personalities, sir,” Mr. Skinner replied smilingly, and Cappy shuddered,
for Mr. Skinner never smiled in a fight unless he had the situation
well in hand. “I have merely called to tell you that I have invested
seventy-five cents of my salary in a stout hickory pick-handle, and the
next time Captain Matt Peasley enters my office I shall test the quality
of the said pick-handle over his head. I don't care if he is engaged to
your daughter; the minute you bring that man into this office I go out.
You shall have my resignation instantly. That decision, Mr. Ricks, is
final and irrevocable.” And without giving Cappy an instant for argument
Mr. Skinner bowed himself out.
A month and Cappy Ricks remained minus his port captain; Mr. Skinner was
still strongly entrenched in his job as general manager. It was a hard
hand to beat, for the fact of the matter was that Cappy Ricks simply
could not afford to dispense with Mr. Skinner. The man was too honest,
too conscientious, too industrious, too brilliant, too efficient, not
to be reckoned with. To part with Skinner was like parting with a
dividend-producing gold mine; it was equivalent to unloading on Cappy's
shoulders again the burden of work and worry that would have killed him
ten years ago had he not surrendered it to Skinner, who handled it as a
juggler handles nine balls. Moreover, Skinner knew all of the business
secrets of the Ricks Lumber and Logging Company and the Blue Star
Navigation Company--why, he was an integral part of the business; and,
lastly, Cappy was fond of the man.
Skinner had come to him as office boy at the tender age of ten--and that
was twenty-five years before. A daily association for twenty-five years
would make a human being like Cappy fond of the devil himself; and,
barring the fact that he was cold-blooded, Skinner was a fairly likeable
chap, and devoted, body and soul to Cappy Ricks. The longer Cappy
pondered the thought of asserting his authority as boss and defying
Skinner, the more impossible the alternative became. Also the longer he
thought of having Matt Peasley kept out of the business by Skinner, the
higher rose his gorge, for Cappy had yearned for a son like Matt Peasley
and been denied. Now when he had planned successfully to do the next
best thing and have Matt for a son-in-law, to be blocked by Skinner was
unbearable. All Cappy could do was to search vainly for an “out,” and
in the interim, whenever he met Matt Peasley at his home, he carefully
avoided all reference to Matt's future in the Blue Star employ for
which, by the way, Matt was eternally grateful. He did not care to talk
business with Cappy for a month as yet. He was too happy with Cappy's
daughter.
Another month passed. Cappy grew thin and lost his relish for his
food. Then Florence, being a woman, began to see, looming out of the
rose-tinted mist of her happy dreams, a huge interrogation mark.
She wondered what her father intended doing for her future husband; and
since she was accustomed to bossing her parent she spoke to Cappy about
it, thereby increasing his mental agony.
About the same time Matt Peasley commenced to wonder also, but forbore
to mention the subject to Cappy. Instead, he went down to the Red Stack
people and got himself a job skippering a tug; and great was his joy
thereat, for the wages were fully as good as he had enjoyed on the
Quickstep, and he was enabled to spend nearly every night in port.
The two months of idleness, albeit the happiest he had ever known, had
commenced to pall on him, and he wanted to be up and doing once more.
Also, being a man, he sensed something of the embarrassment of Cappy's
position, and, manlike, decided to relieve the old fellow of that
embarrassment. Matt concluded that he would retain his job as master of
the tug Sea Fox for a few months--say six--and then ask Cappy Ricks
for twenty thousand dollars, which amount would by that time be to his
credit on the Blue Star books by reason of his half-interest in
the seventy-five-dollar-a-day profit he and Cappy had annexed when
rechartering the steamer Unicorn. With that amount of money in hand,
plus the savings from his salary, he planned to marry Cappy's daughter
and go into business for himself as a ship, freight and marine insurance
broker.
Mr. Skinner heard of Matt Peasley's appointment as master of the tug Sea
Fox several hours before the same information reached Matt himself. The
general manager of the tugboat company, scanning Matt's application and
having a vacancy to fill, called up Mr. Skinner.
“Say, Skinner,” he said, “I have an application for a job as master
for one of our tugs from Captain Matthew Peasley. He tells me he was a
couple of years under the Blue Star flag, from A. B. to master of steam
and sail, with an unlimited license. Is he a good man?”
“We never had a more capable skipper in our employ,” said Mr. Skinner
truthfully.
“Why did you let him go then?”
“He resigned.”
“Under fire?”
“No, he quit voluntarily.”
“Honest?”
“Very.”
“Then what's wrong with him?”
“He doesn't like me. But he's capable and fearless and a devil on
wheels. He'll take a ship anywhere and bring her out again whole.”
“Then he's my huckleberry. That's the kind of man for a tugboat
skipper,” was the reply, and Matt Peasley had the job, greatly to the
joy of Mr. Skinner, who realized now that his ultimatum to Cappy Ricks
had been a knockout blow. Cappy had surrendered, and the rowdy Matt,
having given up hope of a snug berth as port captain of the Blue Star
Navigation Company, had in despair sought a job with a tugboat company.
Mr. Skinner was so happy he shelved his office dignity long enough to
whistle a popular ballad that had been running through his mind of late.
All too gladly had he recommended Matt Peasley for that tugboat job! He
would have employed anything, short of dishonorable methods, to rid the
Blue Star of that incubus!
Cappy Ricks almost wept with rage when his daughter informed him that
Matt had gone back to salt water. She was a little indignant over it,
and demanded a show-down from her unhappy father, who looked at her
miserably and said he'd think it over.
He did. Every afternoon, upon his return from luncheon he slid down on
his spine in his upholstered swivel chair, draped his old shanks over
his desk, dropped his chin on his breast, closed his eyes and went into
a clinch with the awful problem, with all its dips, spurs and angles.
Save for the nervous clasping and unclasping of his hands one would have
thought him sound asleep.
For a month no gleam of light filtered through the deep gloom of the old
gentleman's predicament. A dozen times had he reached forth to press the
push-button on his desk, summon Skinner and force the latter to do one
of two things; recede from his position or resign as general manager.
Ten times he had paused with his finger on the push-button. He simply
could NOT afford to dispense with Skinner! The eleventh time, however,
grown desperate from much brooding over his unhappy lot, Cappy pressed
the button.
“Send Mr. Skinner in,” he commanded bravely to the boy who answered his
summons.
Mr. Skinner entered and stood awaiting Cappy's pleasure. On the instant
the old fellow was overcome by panic. Frantically he sought an “out.”
“Skinner, my dear boy,” he purred, “has it occurred to you that young
Tommy, the office boy, has been here long enough, and behaved himself
well enough, to merit a raise of about ten dollars a month?”
Mr. Skinner was a natural conservative and considerable of a pessimist.
“Well, I daresay he has, although I hadn't given the matter any thought,
sir. However, the way lumber has been selling the past few months, we
ought to be cutting salaries instead of raising them.”
“I know, Skinner, I know. But a boy needs some encouragement; he has
to have some concrete evidence of appreciation, er--er--attend to it,
Skinner, my boy, attend to it.”
Mr. Skinner nodded and retired, leaving Cappy to grit his teeth and
curse himself for a poltroon. “It's certainly hell when a man of my
age and financial rating stands between his love and duty,” he mourned.
“Darn that fellow Skinner. If my bluff should fail to work and he got on
his high horse and quit, I'd have to climb off my high horse and beg him
to return to work. And he knows it. He knows I've been taking it easy so
long I never could bring myself to take up the burden of active business
again. Money! What does money mean if it can't buy happiness? Drat that
devilish Skinner. I wish to jiminy he had the burden of my dollars--”
He paused, overcome by a sudden brilliant thought. “Bully for you,
Alden P., you old, three-ply, copper-riveted, reinforced, star-spangled
jack-ass!” he murmured. “Why didn't you think of it before and save
yourself all this grief?”
His hand shot out once more to the push-button. “Send in Mr. Hankins,
sonny,” he ordered the office boy.
Mr. Hankins was the cashier; also secretary of all of Cappy's companies,
of which Mr. Skinner was first vice president. He entered and stood
deferentially beside Cappy's desk.
“Hankins, my dear boy, bring me the stock certificates for my holdings
in the Ricks Lumber and Logging Company and the Blue Star Navigation
Company. I am going to indorse them, after which I wish you would
reissue the stock to me, less one hundred shares of each in the name
of Mr. Skinner. Say nothing to Mr. Skinner about this and bring the new
certificates to me immediately.”
When Hankins had complied with his request Cappy Ricks placed the
Skinner certificates in his pocket and went uptown to the office of his
attorney. He returned to his office within an hour and immediately sent
for Mr. Skinner.
“Skinner, my dear boy,” began Cappy affably, “sit down. I want to have a
very serious talk with you.”
“Nothing wrong, I trust,” Skinner began apprehensively, for Cappy's air
was very portentous.
“If there was,” Cappy snapped, “you wouldn't be here to-day. Some other
fellow would be holding down your job, and, I dare say, giving poor
satisfaction--by the way, my dear Skinner, something which you have
never done.”
Mr. Skinner flushed pleasurably and thanked his employer.
“Some twenty-five years ago,” Cappy continued, “you entered my employ
as a spindle-legged office boy. To-day you are my general manager, and
a rattling good one, too, even if we do have our little run-in together
every so often. We mustn't pay any attention to that, however, for a
fight is good for a man, Skinner. I maintain that it brings out all of
his virtues and vices where one can have an unobstructed view of them.
However, passing that, I decided a long time ago, Skinner, that you are
entitled to more than a mere salary--”
“My salary has been eminently satisfactory, sir--” Mr. Skinner began.
“Don't be an ass, Skinner,” Cappy interrupted tartly. “I wouldn't
give two hoots in hell for a satisfied man, unless he's his own
man--understand. You should have a more vital interest in the Ricks
Lumber and Logging Company and the Blue Star Navigation Company. We
always make our skippers own a piece of the vessels they command,
so they will not be tempted to rob us, for in robbing us they rob
themselves. Consequently, thinking it over, Skinner, I have decided to
make you own a piece of both the companies you manage, not because you
may rob them but because I want to reward you for faithful service. I
had planned to do this in my will, but I feel so healthy lately I think
I'll live a long time yet, and there isn't any real sense in keeping you
waiting. What is the book valuation of the Ricks L. & L. stock?”
“Three hundred eighty-seven thirteen, according to the last annual
report,” replied Skinner glibly. His eyes glistened.
“And the Blue Star stock?”
“Four hundred thirty-two twenty-seven.”
“Hump! Harump-h-h! It will be worth more when the Panama Canal is
opened. We'll have a crack at the Atlantic Seaboard market with our
Pacific Coast lumber, and the water freight will knock the rail rate
silly. Besides, I'm going to buy up a couple of large freighters, or
build them, and that stock of yours will pay dividends then. I'll
soak you four hundred per share for the Blue Star stock. Is that
satisfactory?”
Nobody knew better than Mr. Skinner the fact that the Blue Star stock at
the book valuation was appraised very conservatively. He nodded.
“Lumber market's up and down, down and up, and we never know where we
stand. Give you that at two-fifty a share. Want it?”
“I should say I do!” Skinner gasped.
“Then you owe me sixty-five thousand dollars. I'll take your promissory
note for it at five per cent., and you can pay the note out of your
salary and the dividends. You'll be in the clear in ten years at the
very latest; the stock I'm selling you now will be worth a hundred
thousand--with your management. Here's the contract, which embodies a
promissory note. Sign it, endorse the stock to me to secure the payment
of the note, and then clear out of here. Not a peep out of you, sir, not
a peep. If you say 'Thank you' I'll change my mind about selling.”
Mr. Skinner's hand trembled a little as he wrote his name across the
backs of the stock certificates and appended the same clear, concise
signature to the note. Silently he wrung Cappy's hand.
“Get out,” rasped Cappy. Mr. Skinner got out.