“We were great chums, Ethan and I, Skinner; and I cried. Why—why, damn it, sir, this boy Matt's people and mine are all buried in the same cemetery back home. Yes, sir! And nearly all of 'em have the same epitaph—'Lost at Sea'—and—you idiot, Skinner! What do you mean, sir, by standing there with your infernal little smile on your smug face? Out of my office, you jackanapes, and call the dogs off this boy Matt. Why, there was never one of his breed that wasn't a man and a seaman, every inch of him.
“All Hands And Feet thrash a Peasley! Huh! A joke! Why, Ethan was six foot six at twenty, with an arm like a fathom of towing cable. Catch me turning down one of our own boys! No, sir! Not by a damned sight!”
In all his life Mr. Skinner had never seen Cappy Ricks so wrought up. He fled at once to call off the dogs, while Cappy turned to his desk and wrote this telegram:
San Francisco, California.
June 28, 19—.
Matt Peasley,
Care United States Marshal,
Hoquiam, Washington.
Congratulations on splendid voyage. You busted record.
Lindquist, in the John A. Logan, did it in eighty-four days in
the spring of ninety-four. Draw draft and pay off crew, render
report of voyage, place second mate in charge, and proceed
immediately to Seattle to get your master's ticket. Will
telegraph Seattle inspectors requesting waive further probation
as first mate and issue license if you pass examination in
order that you may accept captaincy of Retriever. Skinner, my
manager, had you arrested. Would never have done it myself. I
come from Thomaston, Maine, and I knew your people. Would
never have sent the Swede had I known which tribe of Peasley
you belonged to—though, if he had licked you, no more than you
deserved. I want no more of your impudence, Matt.
Alden P. Ricks.
* * * * * *
For a week business droned along in Cappy Ricks' office as usual, interrupted at last by the receipt of a telegram from Matt Peasley to Cappy. It was sent from Seattle and read:
“Have now legal right to be called captain. Rejoin ship
tomorrow. Wire orders. Thank you.”
“God bless the lad!” Cappy murmured happily. “I'll bet he's going to make me a skookum skipper. Still, I think he's pretty young and sadly in need of training; so I'll have to take some of the conceit out of him. I'm going to proceed to break his young heart; and if he yells murder I'll fire him! On the contrary, if he's one of Ethan's tribe—well, the Peasleys always did their duty; I'll say that for them. I hope he stands the acid.”
Whereupon Cappy Ricks squared round to his desk and wrote:
San Francisco, July 5, 19—.
Captain Matthew Peasley,
Master Barkentine Retriever,
Hoquiam, Washington.
Glad you have legal right to be called captain. Sorry I have
not. Proceed to Weatherby's mill, at Cosmopolis, and load for
Antofagasta, Chile. Remember speed synonymous with dividends
in shipping business.
Blue Star Navigation Company.
When Cappy signed his telegrams with the company name it was always a sure indication he had discharged his cargo of sentiment and gotten down to business once more.