CHAPTER XVI. WAR!
The receipt of Cappy Ricks' letter actually frightened Matt Peasley for about thirty seconds. Then he reread the last paragraph. Like a dutiful servant he forgave Cappy the letter's reference to arrogance, impudence and general bad manners; but the reference to his lack of knowledge of the ethics of his profession made him fighting mad.
Cappy Ricks might just as well have passed him the supreme insult of the seas: “Aw, go buy a farm!” He showed the letter to Mr. Murphy.
“Why, that's adding insult to injury!” the mate declared sympathetically.
The youthful master threw up both hamlike hands in token of complete surrender and profound disgust.
“There's the gratitude of an owner!” he raved. “He wires me my loading orders and never says a word about docking—though as managing owner it's up to him to know when the vessel needs docking. I can't plan her comings and goings so that at the proper time she'll find herself at a port with a dry dock. Of course when he wired me my loading orders I realized he wasn't going to dock me; so I took matters into my own hands. Why, Mike, I wouldn't skipper a ship so foul she can hardly answer her helm. How could I know he'd forgotten she needed docking? I'm not a mind reader.”
“I suppose he's been so busy hunting another dirty cargo for us he hadn't time to think of the vessel,” Mr. Murphy sneered, and added: “The dirty old skin-flint!”
“Well, I'll just tell Cappy Ricks where to head in!” Matt stormed. “Let him fire me if he wants to. I don't care to sail a ship—particularly a dirty ship—for any man who thinks I don't know my business. Mike, I'm going to send him a telegram that'll burn his meddling old fingers.”
“Give him hell for me!” pleaded Mr. Murphy. “If he fires you I'll quit, too.”