“Mike,” he said, and handed the mate the telegram, “what in the world do you suppose the old duffer means by that?”
Mr. Murphy read:
“Matt, I always knew you were young, but I had no suspicion you
were a child in arms until I received your photograph.”
“Serves you right,” the mate declared. “I told you to send the photo of an OLD man.”
“But I did, Mike. I sent him a picture of an old pappy-guy sort of man, with long, mutton-chop whiskers, glasses and an old-fashioned collar as tall as the taffrail.”
“It beats my time then what he's driving at, Captain Matt. But then one can never tell what Cappy Ricks is up to. I've heard he's a great hand to have his little joke, so I daresay that telegram is meant for sarcasm.”
Matt had a horrifying inspiration. “I know what's wrong,” he cried bitterly. “He thinks I'm so old I ought to be retired, and that telegram is in the nature of a hint that a letter, asking for my resignation, is on the way now.”
“Why—why—why?” Mr. Murphy stuttered, “did you send him the picture of Methuselah himself? Heaven's sake, skipper, there's a happy medium, you know. I meant for you to pick yourself out a man of about fifty-five, and here you've slipped him a patriarch of ninety. Sarcasm! I should say so.”
They stared at each other a few seconds; then Mr. Murphy had an equally disturbing inspiration.
“By Neptune!” he suggested, “maybe you sent him the picture of somebody he knows!”