“You're a damned scoundrel!” he piped, beside himself with rage. “Be careful how you talk to me, young man, or I'll lose my temper; and if I ever do—”
“That would be terrible, wouldn't it?” Matt laughed. “I suppose you'd just haul off and biff me one, and I'd think it was autumn with the leaves falling!”
Cappy choked, turned purple, sat down again, and glanced covertly at Mr. Skinner, who returned the glance with one that seemed to shout aloud: “Mr. Ricks, I smell a rat as big as a Shetland pony. Something has slipped and we're covered with blood. Incredible as it may seem, this rowdy Peasley has outthought us!”
“Did you get the letter we sent Captain Grant at Panama?” Skinner managed to articulate presently.
Matt nodded affirmatively.
“Opened it, I suppose!” Cappy accused him.
Matt nodded negatively, produced the letter from his pocket and handed it to Cappy.
“Where I was raised,” he said gently, “they taught boys that it was wrong to read other people's private correspondence. You will note that the seal is unbroken.”
“Thank God for that!” Cappy Ricks murmured, sotto voice, and tore the letter into tiny bits. “Now, then,” he said, “we'll hear the rest of your story.”
“When did a doctor look you over last?” Matt queried. “I'm afraid you'll die of heart disease before I finish.”