When the _Retriever_ was out from Manila seventy days Cappy Ricks
remarked to Mr. Skinner that Matt would be breezing in most any day now.
On the eightieth day he remarked to Mr. Skinner that Matt was coming
home a deal slower than he had gone out. The efficient Skinner, however,
cited so many instances of longer passages from Manila to San Francisco
that Cappy was comforted, although he was not convinced. “You make me a
type-written list of all those vessels and their passages, Skinner,” he
cautioned; “and when you can't think of any more authentic cases fake up
a few. Florry's beginning to worry. She knows now what it means to be
a sailor's wife, and if that doggoned Matt doesn't report soon 111 know
what it means to be a sailor's father-in-law. I wish to Jimminy I hadn't
sent Matt out with the _Retriever._”
Ninety days passed. Cappy commenced to fidget. A hundred days passed,
and Cappy visited the hydrographic office and spent a long time poring
over charts of the air currents in the China Sea, along the coast of
Asia and in the North Pacific.
“Skinner, my dear boy,” he quavered when he returned to the office; “I'm
a most unhappy old man.”
Mr. Skinner forgot for an instant that he was a business man and, with a
sudden, impulsive movement, he put his long, thin arm round the old man
and squeezed him.
“If you didn't think so much of him, sir,” he comforted Cappy, “you'd
worry less. She really will not be overdue until she's out a hundred and
twenty days.”
“Skinner,” Cappy piped wearily, “don't try to deceive me. I've been
in the shipping game for forty-odd years, boy. I know it's about six
thousand miles from San Francisco to Manila, and if a vessel averages
ninety miles a day she's making a smart passage. Matt made it down in
sixty-six days, and he ought to come back in sixty, because he has fair
winds all the way. Skinner, the boy's a month overdue; and if he never
shows up--if he stays out much longer--Florry'll break her heart; and
my grandson--think of it, Skinner!--think of the prenatal effect on the
child! Oh, Skinner, my dear, dear boy, I want him big and light-hearted
and sunny-souled like Matt--and to think this is all my doing--my own
daughter! Oh! Oh, Skinner, my heart is breaking!”
Mr. Skinner fled to his own office and did something most
un-Skinner-like. He blinked away several large bright tears; and while
he was blinking them the telephone bell rang. Mechanically Mr. Skinner
answered. It was Jerry Dooley, in charge of the Merchants' Exchange.
“Mr. Skinner,” said Jerry, “I've got some bad news for you.”
“The-the-_Retriever_--” Skinner almost whispered.
“Yes, sir. I thought I'd tell you first, so you could break it to the
old man gently. The Grace liner _Ecudorian_ arrived at Victoria this
morning and reports speaking the _Retriever_ eight hundred miles off the
coast of Formosa. The vessel was under jib, lower topsail, foretopmast
staysail, mainsail and spanker. She was flying two flags--an inverted
ensign and the yellow quarantine flag. The _Ecudorian_ steamed close
alongside of her, to windward. Captain Peasley was at the wheel--”
“Thank God!” Mr. Skinner almost sobbed. “What was wrong with her, Jerry?
Hurry up, man! Hurry up! Tell me!”
“He was alone on the ship, Mr. Skinner. Bubonic plague! Killed the
entire crew! Matt was the only man immune, and he's sailing the
_Retriever_ home alone!”
Mr. Skinner groaned.
“Good gracious Providence! Why didn't the _Ecudorian_ take him off?”
“Credit them with offering it,” Jerry replied. “He wouldn't come. He
declined to jeopardize the people aboard the steamer and he wouldn't
abandon the _Retriever_ with her full cargo; so what could they do? They
had to sail away without him.”
Gently Mr. Skinner broke the news to Cappy Ricks; for, of course, the
United Press dispatches had carried it to the later afternoon editions
and it would be useless for Mr. Skinner to attempt to lie kindly. Cappy,
with bowed head, heard him through; when finally he looked up at Skinner
his eyes were dead.
“Quite what I expected of him, Skinner,” he said dully. “And I'd rather
have him die than dog it! This report from the _Ecudorian_ helps some,
Skinner. It will do to keep hope alive in my Florry--and every two weeks
until the boy is born we'll--we'll--Oh, Skinner--”
“Yes, sir; I'll attend to it. Leave everything to me, Mr. Ricks. I'll
have wireless reports and telegrams and cablegrams from every port on
earth telling of ships having spoken the _Retriever_, with the skipper
well and hearty, and sending messages of good cheer to his wife.”
“You--you won't be--er--stingy, Skinner? You'll send out the
_Tillicum_ to find him and tow him in, won't you? And you'll have real
telegrams--spend money, Skinner! I'll have to bring those messages home
to Florry--”
“Everything, Mr. Ricks. And I'll start right in by slipping fifty
dollars to each of the waterfront reporters on all the papers. They're
good boys, Mr. Ricks. I'll tell them why I have to have the service.
Mrs. Peasley must have our fake reports confirmed in the papers--”
“For work like that the marine reporters should have more money,” Cappy
suggested wearily. His old hand reached out gropingly, closed over Mr.
Skinner's and held it a moment childishly. “You're a very great
comfort to me, Skinner--very great indeed! And you'll come home with me
to-night, won't you, Skinner? I'm a little afraid--I want you near me,
Skinner--in case I can't get away with it to Florry.”
His dry, dead eyes studied the pattern in the office carpet.
“Two mates, a cook and ten A. B.'s!” he murmured presently. “One man,
even a Matt Peasley, cannot do the work of thirteen men. No, Skinner; it
isn't done. One man simply cannot sail a barkentine.”
But Mr. Skinner was not listening. He was on the long-distance phone
calling the master of the _Tillicum_, just about finishing discharge of
a cargo of nitrate at San Pedro. And presently Cappy heard him speaking:
“Mr. Ricks, listen! Grant, of the _Tillicum_, says Matt would go up the
China Sea on the southwest monsoon... Yes, captain. You say--ah, yes;
quite so... Grant says he'd edge over until he got into the Japan
Stream, and that would add a knot or two an hour to his speed... Yes,
Grant. Speak up! ... Grant says, Mr. Ricks, that about the middle of
September or the first of October Matt would run out of the southwest
monsoon into the northeast monsoon--that's it, Grant, isn't it? He'd
get them about off Formosa, eh?... Yes, Grant. Then he'd run into the
prevailing westerly winds and run north on a great circle about five
hundred miles below the Aleutian Islands--I see, Grant. All right! Fill
your oil tanks and take an extra supply on deck, head into the North
Pacific... Yes; use your own judgment, of course. Mine's no good... Yes;
and bring a lot of disinfectants and a doctor, so it'll be safe to put
a few men aboard when you find her and put your hawser on her ... Yes,
Grant. If you find her you'll not have reason to regret it. Good-bye!
Good luck!”
“While the _Tillicum_ is on this wild-goose chase, Skinner,” Cappy said
wearily, “she is chartered by the Blue Star Navigation Company to Alden
P. Ricks personally, at the prevailing rates. The stockholders mustn't
pay for my fancies, Skinner. You'll see to that, won't you?”