For once in his busy life it was, figuratively speaking, raining duck
soup, and poor Cappy was there with a fork! When he had recovered his
composure he sent for Matt Peasley.
“Matt, my dear boy,” he confessed miserably, “this is certainly one
occasion upon which father appears to have overlooked his hand. However,
none of us is perfect; and if we're caught out without an umbrella, so
to speak--”
“We?” Matt reminded him witheringly. “Cappy, it's all right to use
that 'we' stuff when you're talking to Skinner, but trot out the
perpendicular pronoun when you're talking to me. I hate to say 'I told
you so'; but--”
“Lay off me!” Cappy pleaded. “I'm an old man, Matt; so be easy on me.
Besides, I don't make a mistake very often, and you know it.”
“I do know it. But when you blocked me on that building scheme you
certainly made up for lost time. Really, Cappy, you mustn't make me play
so close to my vest in these brisk times. If I'm to manage the Blue Star
Navigation Company I mustn't have my ideas pooh-poohed as if I were a
hare-brained child.”
“I know, Matt; I know. But I built up the Blue Star Navigation Company
and the Ricks Lumber & Logging Company by playing 'em close, and it's a
hard habit to break.
“However, let us forget the past and look forward with confidence to
the future. Matt, my dear boy, since we cannot get a shipyard to build
a steamer for us, I'm going to break a rule of forty years' standing
and buy one in the open market. I guess that'll prove to you I'm not so
hide-bound with conservatism as you think. Go forth into the highways
and the byways, Matt, and see what they have for sale.”
“How high do you want me to go?”
“As high as they hung Haman--if you find it necessary.”
“That's certainly a free hand; but I'm afraid it comes too late. I
doubt if there is an owner with the kind of steamer we want who is crazy
enough to sell her.”
“Tish! Tush! All things are for sale all the time. Scour the market,
Matt, and you'll find Cappy Ricks isn't the only damned fool left in the
shipping business. My boy, you'd be surprised at the number of so-called
business men who are entirely devoid of imagination. Dozens of them
still think the war will end this fall, but I'm willing to make a
healthy bet that the fall of 1917 still finds them going to it to beat
four of a kind.”
“You said something that time, father-in-law,” Matt replied laughingly.
Then he roughed the old man affectionately and went forth into
California Street, where he wore out much shoe leather before he
located what he considered a bargain and reported back to the president
emeritus.
“You're right, Cappy!” he declared. “You aren't the only boob in the
shipping business. I've located another.”
“That's what you get by taking father's advice,” Gappy retorted proudly.
“Have you bought a steamer?”
“No; but I'm going to buy one this afternoon. She's going to cost us
half a million dollars, cash on the nail, and I have an option on her at
that figure until noon today. Skinner has a lot of lumber money he isn't
using, and I'm going to borrow a quarter of a million from his company
on the Blue Star note at six per cent. Don't want to run our own
treasury too low.”
“Dog-gone that Skinner! That's some more of his efficiency. I own both
companies, and it's just like taking money out of one pocket and putting
it into the other; but Skinner's a bug on system. Just think of making
me pay myself six per cent interest! However, I suppose we must have
some kind of order. What's the name of the steamer?”
“The _Penelope_.”
Cappy Ricks slid out to the edge of his chair, placed one hand on each
knee, and appraisingly eyed his son-in-law over the rims of his glasses.
“Say that again, Matt--and say it slow,” he ordered.
“I said _Penelope--P-e-n-e-l-o-p-e_. Maybe you call her the
_Pen-elope!_”
“Are you buying her as is?” Matt nodded. “To hear you tell it, Matt, one
might gather the impression that half a million dollars is about what
we give the janitor at Christmas. Boy, half a million dollars is real
money.”
“Not in the shipping business these days, Cappy. Why, you have to wave
that much under an owner's nose before he'll look up and show interest
enough to ask you who you are and who let you in.”
“Well, the man who would, in cold blood, consider paying half a million
dollars for the _Penelope_ is certainly ripe for a padded cell,” Cappy
jeered. “That fellow Hudner, of the Black Butte Lumber Company, owns
her, does he not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you know exactly the condition she's in. I'll bet a cooky her
bottom plates are rusted so thin from lack of an occasional coat of red
paint that if you were to stand on her bridge and toss a tack
hammer down her main hatch you'd punch a hole in her. She's a long,
narrow-gutted, cranky coffin--that's what she is; and the worst-found
ship in Pacific waters. Why, let me tell you something, young man: she
can't get by the inspectors this minute.”
“She has just gotten by them,” Matt contradicted. “Passed yesterday.”
“What does that signify? When her skipper has her up for inspection he
scours the water front like a hungry dog, borrowing a boathook here, a
sound life-boat there, some fire buckets elsewhere, a hose from the fire
tug, and a lot of engine-room tools wherever he can get them. As for
life preservers, he rents them for ten cents each from a marine junk
dealer. So, when the inspectors arrive, the _Penelope_ is a well-found
ship; as soon as they pass her the skipper returns the equipment, with
thanks. As for paint--why, the only painting she ever gets is when
Hudner lays her alongside some British ship to discharge a foreign cargo
of lumber into the lime-juicer; then her mate steals all the paint
in the Britisher's lazaret. The poor, unfortunate devil! He has to do
something to make a showing with the _Penelope's_ owner! I tell you,
Matt, I know this man Hudner! He's as thrifty as an Armenian and as
slippery as a skating rink. He's laying to stab you, boy. Mind your
step!”
“Even so, Cappy, she's a bargain. I expect to spend fifty thousand
dollars putting her in first-class condition after we get her.”
“You expect to spend it! Why, how you talk! Hudner is the one that
should spend that money. For the love of trade, what is he selling you?
A ship or a hulk?”
“I don't care what she is; we can make her pay for herself and earn half
a million or a million extra before this war ends. And she won't be such
a bad vessel after she's shipped a couple of new plates. She has a dead
weight capacity for six thousand tons and was built at Sunderland in
1902. When she went ashore off Point Sur, in 1909, Hudner bought her
from the underwriters for five thousand dollars and spent more than half
her original cost repairing her. That, of course, made her tantamount to
a ship built in the United States, and under American registry she can
run between American ports. And that's what we want. She'll be just the
thing to carry lumber to New York, via the Canal, when the war ends and
the nitrate harvest is over.”
Cappy Ricks threw up his hands.
“You see before you, my boy,” he said mournfully, “a dollar-burdened,
world-weary old man, who for ten years has been trying to retire from
active business, and cannot. The reason is he dassent; if he dassed,
this shebang would be in the hands of the sheriff within a year. Now,
listen, young feller! I know all about the _Penelope_. Before the war
she had repaid Hudner, with interest, every cent she cost him, and since
the war I suppose she's made half a million dollars. Now when Hudner
finds he has to spend a lot of money fixing her up, he figures it's best
to get rid of her and saddle somebody else with the bill. Her intrinsic
value is just about one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, and
when Hudner asks half a million for her he expects to get four hundred
and fifty thousand. In order to play safe, go back and offer him four
hundred thousand dollars; presently he'll come down fifty thousand and
you'll come up fifty thousand, and the trade will be closed on that
basis. Meantime I'll sit here and weep as I reflect on the cost of
putting that ruin in fit shape to receive a Blue Star house flag. I tell
you, Matt, I wouldn't send Pancho Villa to sea in her as she is now.”
Matt Peasley, like Cappy Ricks, was a Yankee; when he did business he
liked to chaffer; and, after all--he thought--there was a certain shrewd
philosophy in what his foxy father-in-law had said. At least Cappy had
supplied him with ammunition for argument; so he went back to Hudner's
office and argued and pleaded and ridiculed, but all to no avail. He
returned to Cappy Ricks' office.
“I fought him all over his office,” he complained, “but he wouldn't
come down a cent. I think we'd better take a chance and give him half a
million.”
“Fiddlesticks! Stay with him, Matt. I know Hudner. He acts like he's
full of bellicose veins, but anybody can outgame him. Let your option
expire; then to-morrow meet him accidentally on 'Change and talk with
him half an hour about everything on earth except the S. S. _Penelope_.
Just before you leave him he'll grab you by the lapel of your coat and
ask if you're still interested in the _Penelope_. Then you say: 'Why,
yes--moderately; but not at half a million.' Then you make him a firm
offer--for the last time--of four hundred and fifty thousand dollars;
and he'll say: 'I'll split the difference with you'--and before he can
crawfish you accept. You're bound to make at least twenty-five thousand
by following my advice, Matt.”
Matt Peasley ran his big hand through his thick black locks.
“By jingo,” he declared, “we'd make twenty-five thousand dollars while
we're dickering with Hudner!”
“I know, my boy; but then I don't like Hudner, and it's awful to do
business with a son of a horsethief you don't like and let him put one
over on you. That's the thrill of doing business, Matt. Though I'd hate
to have anybody think I'm in business for fun, still, if I thought
I couldn't get some fun out of business I'd go right down to Mission
Street Wharf and end all.”
“Nitrate freights are up to thirty dollars a ton,” said Matt later that
day. “They were twelve a year and a half ago. Cappy, we can't risk the
delay; and I'm sorry I took your advice and let my option expire. I
insist on buying.” He reached for Cappy's desk 'phone. “I'm going to
tell Hudner to prepare the bill of sale--that I'll be up in fifteen
minutes with the check. He who hesitates is lost, and--”
The door opened and a youth stood in the entrance.
“Mr. J. O. Heyfuss is calling,” he announced.
“Show him in immediately,” Cappy ordered, glad of the opportunity to
delay Matt's telephonic acceptance of the vessel at Hudner's price.
“Hold on a minute, Matt,” he continued, turning to his son-in-law.
“Heyfuss is a ship broker; maybe he has a ship to sell us; she might
prove to be a better buy than the _Penelope_... Howdy, Heyfuss? Come in
and sit down.”
Mr. Heyfuss entered smilingly, saluted both satellites of the Blue Star
and sat down.
“Well, gentlemen,” he announced, “wonders will never cease. Every day
I'm seeing, hearing and doing wonderful things in the shipping business.
Day before yesterday I bought the old barkentine _Mayfair_. She'd been
laid up in Rotten Row for seven years, and for at least four years the
tide has been rising and falling inside her. She cost me seven hundred
and fifty dollars, and I sold her the same afternoon to Al Hanify for
a thousand. Not very much of a profit; but then it was Saturday and
everybody closes up shop at noon, you know. So I felt the day wasn't a
blank, anyhow.
“And what do you suppose Al did? You'll laugh. He called up Crowley her
out on Hanlon's Marine Way, putting a new bottom in her. They're going
to spend twenty thousand dollars on her; and when she's ready for sea
Redell has a cargo of fir for Sydney waiting for her.
“She'll come back with coal and make her owners at least fifty thousand
dollars.”
“That's all very interesting to outsiders, but commonplace stuff to us,”
Cappy reminded his visitor. “Have you got a commission to sell a ship
for somebody?”
“Want one?”
“Surest thing you know!”
“All right. I'll sell you the _Alden Besse_. She's an old tea clipper,
built in the forties; but she's sound and tight. Been a motion picture
ship for the past five years. I can deliver her to you for forty
thousand dollars.”
“No, you'll not. I sold her to the motion picture people for fifteen
hundred,” Cappy countered, “and I don't want her back at any price.
I send my boys to sea to earn a safe living, not to visit Davy Jones'
locker.”
“Well, I think I might get you the old Australian prison ship,
_Success_. She was built at Rangoon in 1790, of teak, and will last
forever. Perhaps you saw her when she was exhibited at the Exposition
last year. Might get her for you kind of cheap.”
“Nothing doing. Heyfuss, we want a steamer.”
“Sorry, but I haven't a thing in steamers. Just sold the last one I had
ten minutes ago--the _Penelope_.”
“The what!” Matt Peasley and Cappy cried in chorus.
“The _Penelope_. Sold her to a big Eastern powder company. She goes into
the nitrate trade, of course. These munition manufacturers must have
powder, and to get powder they must have nitrate, and to get nitrate
they must have ships, and to get ships they must pay the price. I got
Hudner a million dollars for that ruin of a _Penelope._”
Matt Peasley gently seized J. O. Heyfuss by the ear and led him to the
door.
“Out, thief!” he cried. “You can't sell us anything; so we don't want
you hanging round this office. You might steal the safe or a roll-top
desk, or something.”
Heyfuss departed, laughing good-naturedly, and Matt Peasley turned to
confront Cappy Ricks. The latter had shrunk up in his chair and was
looking as chopfallen and guilty as a dog caught sucking eggs. He
favored his big son-in-law with a quick, shifty glance, and then looked
down at the carpet.
Matt folded his arms and stared at him until he looked up.
“Don't you go to pick on me!” he warned Matt furiously. “I'll not be
picked on in my own office, even by a relative.”
Matt threw back his head and chanted,
_“There was I, waiting at the church,
Waiting at the church--“_
“I was right!” Cappy shrilled. “My mode of procedure was without a
flaw.”
“Absolutely! The operation was a success, but the patient died.”
“But a feller just has to haggle!” Cappy wailed. He was almost on the
verge of tears. “It's the basic principle of all trading. Why, I've made
my everlasting fortune by haggling. Drat your picture, don't you
know that the very pillars of financial success rest on
counter-propositions?”
“Listen, relative, listen: I haven't said a word to you, have I?” Matt
replied.
“No; but you looked it, and I'll not be looked at.”
“All right, Cappy, I'll not look. But I can't help thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“That it's about time you quit talking about retiring--and retired!”