As Cappy Ricks was wont to remark, Mr. Skinner could “get” one before one could “get” one's self.
“Get out of my office, you infernal rowdy,” he yelled loud enough to awaken Cappy Ricks next door. Then he clinched with Matt Peasley.
“A good fight,” said Cappy Ricks half an hour after Matt Peasley had been pried away from Mr. Skinner and forced to listen to reason, “is the grandest thing in life. Now there's that crazy boy gone out in a rage just because he had the presumption to tangle with me in a business deal and get dog-gone well licked! He put it all over me yesterday, thinking I couldn't protect myself. Well, he knows better now, Skinner; he knows better now! In-fer-nal young scoundrel! Wow, but wasn't he a wild man, Skinner? Wasn't he though?” And Cappy Ricks chuckled.
“You have probably cured him of sucking eggs,” Mr. Skinner observed enigmatically.
“Well, I handed the young pup a dose of cayenne pepper, at any rate,” Cappy bragged, “and I wouldn't have missed doing it for a cool hundred thousand. Why, Skinner, a man might as well retire from business when he gets so weak and feeble and soft-headed he doesn't know how to protect himself in the clinches and break-aways.”
Mr. Skinner smiled. “The old dog for the cold scent,” he suggested.
“You bet,” Cappy cackled triumphantly. “Skinner, my dear boy, what are we paying you?”
“Ten thousand a year, sir.”
“Not enough money. Hereafter pay yourself twelve thousand. Tut, tut. Not a peep out of you, sir, not a peep. If you do, Skinner, you'll spoil the happiest day I've known in twenty years.”