A youth thrust a wary nose into Cappy Ricks' private office and
announced Captain Matt Peasley was desirous of admittance.
“Show him in,” Cappy ordered, and Matt entered.
“Well, young man,” said Cappy briskly, “sit down and tell me of your
adventures during your first week as a business man. Of course, I hear
from Florry that you have opened a dink of an office somewhere--got desk
space with the Alaskan Codfish Corporation, haven't you, with the use of
their telephone, stenographer and general office boy?”
“Yes, sir. The manager, Slade, is a native of Thomaston--never knew
anything but fish all his life; and, inasmuch as I was raised on the
Grand Banks, I got in the habit of drifting round there occasionally,
and Slade offered me the privilege of making it my headquarters. Ten
dollars a month--cheap enough.”
“Yes, considering the aroma of codfish that goes with it, free-gratis,”
Cappy admitted dryly; “but then I suppose that's what attracted you in
the first place. But have you done any real business, Matt?”
“Well, I've arranged with several good old-line insurance companies to
accept any marine-insurance business I may bring in, though I haven't
sold any yet; neither have I been able to find a load for your Tillicum.
By the way, you have a little old three-legged schooner laid up in
Oakland Inner Harbor.”
“I have three of them--more's the pity!” Cappy replied--“the Ethel
Ricks, the Nukahiva and the Harpoon. Which one do you mean?”
“The Ethel Ricks. She's the only one I examined closely. Would you
consider selling her?”
“Ah,” said Cappy, “I perceive. Your friend Slade wants her for a
codfisher, eh?”
“That's all she's good for now, Mr. Ricks. She has had her day in the
lumber trade; the steam schooners have relegated her to a final resting
place in the ooze of Oakland Inner Harbor; her class of windjammers is
a thing of the past for general cargo. She's been laid up now for three
years. True, her bottom is coppered and you dry-dock her every year; but
that's an expense. And then you must consider taxes and depreciation,
and sooner or later, if she lies in the mud long enough, the Teredo will
eat her up; so it occurred to me that you might be glad to sell. She was
built in 1883, but she was built to last--”
“Never built a cheap ship in my life and never ran 'em cheap,” Cappy
challenged proudly. “The Ethel Ricks is in the discard, but she's as
sound a little packet as you'll find anywhere. She's had the best of
care. The same is true of the Harpoon and the Nukahiva.”
“What do you want for her?”
“Four thousand dollars,” Cappy answered promptly.
“I was offered the Dandelion for three thousand; she's ten years younger
than the Ethel Ricks and in very good condition. Sorry, but I guess
you'll have to keep the Ethel--and let me tell you, the longer you
keep her the less she's worth. However, I guess she doesn't owe you
anything.”
“No; she paid for herself more'n twice,” Cappy replied.
“Then if you get three thousand for her it's like finding the money and
losing a worry.”
“Sold!” said Cappy.
“I didn't say I'd buy,” Matt warned him. “What do you want for the
Harpoon and the Nukahiva?”
“They're all sister ships. Three thousand each.”
“I am empowered to make you an offer of twenty-seven hundred and fifty
dollars each for the three!” Matt shot at him.
“Net? The three of them?” Cappy was all attention now; for selling
schooners in lots of three was decidedly new and interesting.
“Hardly! Five per cent to me. Remember I'm a ship, freight and marine
insurance broker, and I'm not working for my health. Why, I haven't even
suggested any other vessels to my clients--and, by the way, they are
not codfish people either. I knew you'd want to get rid of these little
hookers, so I'm giving you first crack at the bargain.”
“Who wants them?” Cappy demanded craftily.
“If I told you that you'd do me the way you did that Seattle broker who
tried to put through the charter of the Lion and the Unicorn. When you
knew who his clients were you were in position to defy him--and you
did!”
“No offense,” Cappy retorted innocently. “Don't be so touchy! Is this a
cash proposition, Matt?”
“In the hand.”
“I accept.”
“Then give me a written option,” Matt warned him. “No more word-of-mouth
business for me with you.”
Cappy laughed; and, calling in a stenographer, he dictated the option.
“Now, then, Matt,” he said as he signed the option five minutes later
and handed it to Matt, “who shall we make out the bills of sale to?”
“To the Pacific Shipping Company. When you're ready telephone me and
I'll bring the check round.”
“Go get your check now,” Cappy ordered. “Skinner will have the bills of
sale ready by the time you return. And I do wish to heaven,” he added,
“that you had called round with this proposition four days ago. I've
just had those three schooners dry-docked, cleaned and painted.”
“Which is the very reason why I didn't call round until to-day, Mr.
Ricks. You can afford that dry-dock bill so much better than--er--the
Pacific Shipping Company.”
He left, laughing, and proceeded to the office of the Pacific Shipping
Company, where he procured a check for eighty-two hundred and fifty
dollars and returned to the Blue Star Navigation Company's office. Mr.
Skinner had in the meantime prepared proper bills of sale; a notary,
with offices in the building, had been called in to attest the
signatures of Cappy Ricks and Mr. Hankins, president and secretary
respectively of the Blue Star Navigation Company; and when Cappy Ricks
handed over the bills of sale to Matt Peasley, together with the Blue
Star check for four hundred and twelve dollars and fifty cents--Matt's
commission--the latter handed him the certified check of the Pacific
Shipping Company.
“Who is the Pacific Shipping Company, Matt?” Cappy queried. “I never
heard of them before.”
“It's a new company, sir,” Matt replied; and, gathering up his bills of
sale and the check for his commission, he fled precipitately, leaving
Cappy Ricks to adjust his spectacles and examine the check. It was
signed: “Pacific Shipping Company, by Matthew Peasley, President.”
For a long time Cappy Ricks sat staring at that check. Finally he looked
up and saw Mr. Skinner gazing at him. He held out the check and tapped
Matt Peasley's signature.
“Get on to that, Skinner, my boy,” he said; “get on to that! Matt's gone
into the shipping business, and he's making an humble start with three
little old antiquated schooners, for which he has paid me more than
eight thousand dollars. Now he will go broke!”
“I do not agree with you, Mr. Ricks,” Mr. Skinner replied dryly, “for I
notice he didn't forget to stick us four hundred and twelve dollars and
fifty cents for the privilege of selling him those three schooners!
This is the first time I ever heard of anybody's paying the purchaser a
commission!”
“The infernal scoundrel!” Cappy shrilled angrily, for Mr. Skinner's
assertion carried the hint that Cappy had been outgeneraled. “The Yankee
thief!--acting as broker for a company in which he owns all the capital
stock! In business a week and he's made over four hundred dollars
already, neat and nice, and as clean as a hound's tooth! Can you beat
it?”
“It's better than being a port captain for the Blue Star Navigation
Company at three hundred a month,” Mr. Skinner suggested wistfully.
He had worked for a salary all his days, and after passing the thirty
mark he had lost the courage to leap into the commercial fray and be his
own man. He wished he might have been endowed at birth with a modicum of
Matt Peasley's courage and reckless disregard of consequences.