Cappy Ricks turned to his general manager.
“Pretty work, Skinner!” he said huskily. “I guess there's nothing wrong with that boy's health. Damn! The quarantine boat will beat us to it! Matt's throwing the Jacob's ladder over the side for them.”
“We can't board her until she passes quarantine—” Mr. Skinner began; but Cappy silenced him with a terrible look.
“The word can't, Skinner, was eliminated from my vocabulary some fifty years ago. We can—and I will! You needn't; but I've simply got to! Hey, you!”—to the launchman—“kick her wide open and show some speed.”
Despite the warning cries from the quarantine officers in the health boat, the launch ran in along the Retriever's side; Cappy Ricks grasped the Jacob's ladder as the launch rasped by and climbed up with an agility that caused Mr. Skinner to marvel. As his silk hat appeared over the Retriever's rail a wind-bitten, bewhiskered, gaunt, hungry-looking semi-savage reached down, grasped him under the arms, snaked him inboard and hugged him to his heart.
Silence for a minute, while Cappy Ricks' thin old shoulders shook and heaved as from some internal spasm, and Matt Peasley's big brown hand patted Cappy's back. Presently he said:
“Well, father-in-law—”
From somewhere in Matt Peasley's whiskers Cappy's voice came plaintively:
“Not father-in-law, sonny. New title—this morning—six o'clock—nine—pounds—grandfather! Eh? Yes; grandfather! Grandpa Ricks!”
“Boy or girl?” Matt Peasley roared, and shook the newly-elected grandfather.