Florence looked up and bravely smiled a forgiving smile through her tears.
“You're a dreadful Buttinsky, Daddy Ricks!” she protested.
He kissed her hungrily.
“Oh, I'm a devil in my own home town!” he replied, and trotted back to his neglected breakfast. “If Matt hasn't made good as a business man within six months, or has lost his bank roll—and I intend to see to it that he does lose it, if I ever get a hack at him—we'll pull off this wedding anyhow. I guess there's room enough in this house for three.”
At nine o'clock Cappy Ricks, with a lilt in his heart, drove down to his office behind his team of high-stepping bays. At the corner of California and Drumm Streets he saw Matt Peasley and hailed him. The latter came to the carriage door and looked in.
“It's all right, Matt,” Cappy said with a cunning wink. “I've fixed Florry's clock for her. There won't be the slightest trouble.”
Matt Peasley wrung his hand gratefully.
“I quit the Sea Fox last night,” he announced gladly.
“Going into business this morning, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”