CHAPTER XXXVII. MATT PEASLEY BECOMES A SHIPOWNER
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?”