“We're going to leave the president emeritus on the job,” Matt repeated, “while I go to Europe and pick up a couple of big British tramps, under the provisions of the recent Emergency Shipping Act, and stick 'em under the American flag. Regardless of what the other fellows may do or think, the fact is we're American citizens; and we're going to do our duty and help establish an American mercantile marine. Skinner, we'll make the Blue Star flag known on the Seven Seas.”
Cappy Ricks sprang into the air and got one thin old arm round Matt Peasley's neck; with the other he groped for Skinner, for there were tears in his fine old eyes.
“What a pair of lads to have round me!” he said huskily. “Matt—Skinner, my boy—by the Holy Pink-toed Prophet!—we'll do it; not because we need the money or want it, or give a particular damn to hoard up a heap of it, but because it's the right thing to do. It's patriotic—it's American—our activities shall enrich the world—and oh, it's such a bully game to play!”
Mr. Skinner glanced at Cappy Ricks with the closest approach to downright affection he considered quite dignified to permit during business hours.
“I notice you were going to quit a minute ago to become president emeritus—and now you're including yourself in the new program of activity,” he reminded Cappy Ricks. “I seem to remember that for the past few years you've been talking of the happy day when you could retire and learn to play golf.”
“Golf!” Cappy glanced at Mr. Skinner witheringly. “Skinner,” he continued, “don't be an ass! Golf is an old man's game—and I belong with the young fellows. Why, don't you remember the day, three years ago, when we discovered we had a sailor named Matt Peasley before the mast in the old Retriever? Why, ever since I've been having so much fun—”
“And that reminds me,” Matt interrupted: “We must send a new skipper to Aberdeen to relieve Mike Murphy in the Retriever. He has his ticket for steam and I've hired him at two hundred and fifty a month to skipper the Narcissus. Mike is one of the best men under the Blue Star; he has come up from before the mast.”
“The only kind I ever gave a whoop for,” Cappy declared. “In effect, he once told me to go chase myself.”
“But,” Skinner persisted, “how about playing golf?”
Cappy Ricks raised his eyes reverently upward. “Please God,” he said, “I'll die in the harness!”