Cappy Ricks, who claimed to know Mike Murphy's kind of Irish, doubtless
would have been extremely gratified had he been granted a peep at the
battered, bleeding, weeping wreck of his faithful Michael as the pride
of the Blue Star fleet rolled south to meet the grey sea rovers of the
Fatherland and deliver the cargo of coal that meant so much to them. The
sight might have aroused some hope in Cappy's heavy heart, he being by
nature inconsistent and always seeing a profit where others found naught
but a deficit. However, though Cappy was variously gifted he was not
a clairvoyant, in consequence of which he spent a very sleepless night
following the receipt of that windy cablegram from the American consul.
He dined at his club, and when it was time for him to leave and his
daughter sent her car for him, he lacked the courage to go home and face
his son-in-law. So he spent the night at the club and came down to the
office about noon, hoping Matt Peasley would have recovered from the
shock by that time. The latter was waiting for him, and came into
Cappy's sanctum immediately to hold a post-mortem.
“Matthew, my dear boy,” said Cappy miserably, “this is terrible.”
“I think we should take the matter up immediately with the State
Department,” Matt replied. “There may be a United States warship in
those waters, and she could be instructed by wireless to endeavor to
intercept the _Narcissus._ We can prove a clean bill of health with
those cablegrams, and get back our ship.”
“Yes--from our own Government, of course. But, oh, Matt, if old Johnny
Bull ever gets his horns into her we can kiss her good-bye. We can't
bring forward any evidence to alibi that German crew on a ship so far
off her course and loaded with contraband.”
“Well, I know if I were skippering a British warship and picked up the
_Narcissus,_ her owners would find I was born and bred in Missouri,” the
honest Matt admitted. “By the way, have you read this morning's papers?”
“No, Matt. I've felt too blamed miserable about this _Narcissus_
affair.”
“Well, the _Scharnhorst_, the _Gneisenau_, the _Leipzig,_, the _Dresden_
and the _Nurnberg_ met a British fleet under Admiral Craddock, away down
off Coronel, Chile. The British were cleaned for fair.”
“You don't tell me!”
“I do tell you. And I'll bet my immortal soul that German fleet is
heading for the entrance to Magellan this minute. If I were a religious
man I'd be praying for clear weather so they'll find the entrance
without any trouble.”
“I hope they run ashore and drown every man Jack!” cried Cappy fiercely.
“I do not. You will note that our charterers tried to induce Mike to go
to Montevideo for orders. That was because they expected to lie snug at
Montevideo and be within striking distance of a designated meeting place
in the South Atlantic when the German fleet should pass through Magellan
from the Pacific. Remember that for several weeks the German fleet has
managed to lose itself in the Pacific, but now that the British fleet
has stumbled onto it and forced an engagement, the Australian and
Japanese cruisers will all be headed for the south coast of Chile to
make reprisal. We know the Germans are short of coal; doubtless some of
the fleet have suffered in the engagement with Admiral Craddock's
ships, so it's a safe bet they'll run into the Atlantic now and raid the
Falkland Islands--by the way, a British possession. They will hope to
find coal and stores there, which, with the cargo of the _Narcissus,_
will enable them to continue raiding.
“Of course they will try to accomplish this before England sends a fleet
to avenge Craddock--and I'm hoping the Germans will succeed, for, if
they do, they will surely be decent enough to run our _Narcissus_ into
some South American port and give us an opportunity to get her back
again. On the other hand, if the Germans delay their departure from the
Pacific, the British will surely get wind of the _Narcissus_ waiting at
Montevideo; and when she comes out they'll just naturally grab her.”
“I guess you're right,” Cappy replied gloomily; “so for the present
we're pro-German. Still, I find that a hard dose to swallow, in view of
the fact that our German crew in the _Narcissus_ has evidently taken the
vessel away from Mike Murphy.”
“I am sure they have done just that, sir; otherwise Mike would have
obeyed our orders. We know he received the orders; hence the only reason
he did not carry them out was because he wasn't permitted to do so. My
only hope is that they haven't killed him, for if he is alive and free,
he and Reardon, with the assistance of the cockney steward and the two
Chinese cooks, might--”
“Might what?”
“Might steal her back again.”
“Matt! It isn't possible, is it?”
“I'll bet Mike Murphy and I could steal her back if we had half a
chance. The odds would be forty to two against our succeeding, but a
little strategy is sometimes to be preferred to great horsepower. I
think I could do it, and I think Murphy will do it--if he only thinks of
it.”
“How? Tell me how you'd steal her back.”
“What's the use?” Matt replied wearily. “I'd have to have help. So will
Mike--and I've just remembered Mike Murphy and Terence Reardon are the
wrong kind of Irish to have together in the same ship. We did our best
to prevent it, but the odds are too long for us; the coal is for the
Germans and we hate England, so why worry? I know Mike Murphy will not
take that view of it; for my sake he'll fight to the last gasp, but he
must have help, and Reardon owes me no such allegiance as Murphy.”
“Well, he owes me something,” Cappy spoke up. “You promised him a
hundred and seventy-five dollars a month and I raised the ante to two
hundred. It was an investment, pure and simple. I was buying loyalty,
and by the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, I think I'll get it. Come to think
of it, there was a look in Reardon's eyes that I liked, when he took my
hand in those greasy paws of his and said he was a proud man to work for
me. Matt, that fellow is full of bellicose veins. He may not fight
for me, but he'll fight for Mrs. Reardon and the children and that
two-hundred-dollar-a-month job, for it's the first he's ever had and
if he loses out it'll be the last he'll ever get. He was telling me all
about his family and how much the job meant to him, that day we had the
_Narcissus_ out on her trial trip.”
Matt Peasley's face brightened. “By Jupiter, that puts a different face
on the situation. If Reardon is alive they might get together for mutual
protection.”
“Well,” Cappy piped up, greatly relieved to discover Matt was facing the
tragedy so optimistically, “we might do worse than hope. Wire the State
Department, Matt; and in the meanwhile, cheer up, sonny, and trust in
the luck of Alden P. Ricks. I remember Captain Noah Kendall--peace to
his ashes--used to say to me: 'Mr. Ricks, if you ever fell into Channel
Creek at low tide you'd come up with a pearl necklace wrapped round your
ankle, and you'd be smelling like a spray of lemon verbena.' Cheer up,
Matt! What though the cause be lost, the _Narcissus_ is not lost--yet.
The Celtic troops remain, and from now on my war cry is going to be--”
“Ireland uber Alles,” Matt Peasley suggested.
“You're blamed whistlin'!” said Cappy Ricks.
So Mr. Skinner was called into consultation, and he and Matt Peasley and
Cappy drew up a heart-rending telegram to the Secretary of State,
who consulted with the Secretary of the Navy, who wired the Blue Star
Navigation Company that he was sorry but he didn't have as much as a
rowboat in the South Atlantic to save their steamer _Narcissus,_ and
would they please keep still about it, since a noise like that, unless
absolutely based on facts--and he understood their wail to be based on
suspicion--would tend to create additional friction in an international
complication already strained to the breaking point. Whereupon Cappy
Ricks flew into a rage and immediately dictated a long letter to his
congressman and his senator, urging them to battle to the last trench in
the campaign for a two-power navy.
Time passed. Then suddenly the world rocked with the news of the
annihilation of the German Pacific fleet off the Falkland Islands. Cappy
Ricks and Matt Peasley read the horrid tale in the morning papers as
they sat at breakfast, and immediately both lost all interest in food.
Like two mourners about to set out for the morgue to identify the corpse
of a loved one recently killed by a taxicab, they drove down to the Blue
Star offices, where immediately upon arrival something terrible in Mr.
Skinner's face brought on palpitation of Cappy Ricks' heart.
“Skinner, my dear boy,” he chattered, “Have you any news?”
“Not yet, sir,” murmured Mr. Skinner brokenly, “but soon! The British
consul wants you to ring him up. He says he's had a wireless from
H.M.S. _Panther,_ off the Falkland Islands, and he thinks it will be of
interest to you.”
“Is my _Narcissus_ confiscated?” Cappy and Matt cried in chorus.
“I--I don't know,” Skinner faltered. “I just didn't have the courage to
pursue the matter further. The British consul said she was captured but
as for con--”
“Idiot! Bonehead!” rasped Cappy. “My _Narcissus_ is gone--gone! Oh,
Lord! Matt, you ring up the British consul--I'm an old man--Skinner, my
dear chap, forgive my harsh language. Have you a little drop of whisky
in the office?”