“You're looking fit as a fiddle,” Cappy continued. “Doesn't look a bit worried—does he, Skinner?”
“I must admit he appears to carry it off very well, Mr. Ricks. We had thought, captain,” Skinner continued, turning to Matt Peasley, “that, when Mr. Ricks agreed to permit you to assume command of the Tillicum when she reached Panama, we might have been treated to an exhibition of speed; but the fact of the matter is that instead of economizing on time you are about ten days in excess of the period it would have taken for Captain Grant to have discharged his cargo and gotten back to San Francisco.” He winked at Cappy Ricks, who returned the wink.
“You mean in ballast,” Matt suggested. Skinner nodded. “Oh, well, that accounts for it,” Matt continued serenely. “I came home with a cargo of steel rails.”
Cappy Ricks slid out to the extreme edge of his swivel chair; and, with a hand on each knee, he gazed at Matt Peasley over the rims of his spectacles. Mr. Skinner started violently.
“You came home with a cargo of steel rails?” Cappy demanded incredulously.
“Certainly! Do you suppose I would go to the expense of hiring somebody else to skipper the Tillicum while I was there with my license? Not by a jugful! I was saving every dollar I could. I had to.”
“Er—er—Where is Captain Grant?” Skinner demanded.
“Captain Grant is free, white and twenty-one. He goes where he pleases without consulting me, Mr. Skinner. He means nothing in my life—so why should I know where he is?”
“You infernal scoundrel!” shrilled Cappy Ricks. “You whaled hell out of him and threw him out on the dock at Panama—that's what you did to him! You took the Tillicum away from him by force.”
“Captain Grant is a fine, elderly gentleman, sir,” Matt interrupted. “I would not use force on him. He left the ship of his own free will at San Diego, California.”