“Where does the Gualala lie, sir?” he asked gruffly.
“Howard Street Wharf, Number One, Matt,” Cappy replied cheerfully. “I think she had bedbugs in her cabin, but I'm not sure. I wouldn't go within a block of her myself.”
Matt gazed sorrowfully at the rug. Too well he realized that Cappy had the whip hand and was fully capable of cracking the whip; so presently he said:
“Well, I've met bedbugs before, Mr. Ricks. I'll go aboard in the morning.”
“I'm glad to hear it, Matt. And another thing: I like you, Matt, but not well enough for a son-in-law. Remember, my boy, you're only a sailor on a steam schooner now—so it won't be necessary for you to look aloft. You understand, do you not? You want to remember your position, my boy.”
Matt turned and bent upon Cappy a slow, smoldering gaze. Cappy almost quivered. Then slowly the rage died out in Matt Peasley's fine eyes and a lilting, boyish grin spread over his face, for he was one of those rare human beings who can smile, no matter what the prospect, once he has definitely committed himself to a definite course of action. Only the years of discipline and his innate respect for gray hairs kept him from bluntly informing Cappy Ricks that he might forthwith proceed to chase himself! Instead he said quietly:
“Very well, sir. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, sir,” snapped Cappy.
At the door Matt paused an instant, for he was young and he could not retire without firing a shot. He fired it now with his eyes—a glance of cool disdain and defiance that would have been worth a dollar of anybody's money to see. Cappy had to do something to keep from laughing.
“Out, you rebel!” he yelled. The door closed with a crash, and Cappy Ricks took down the telephone receiver and called up his daughter.