But Captain Murphy was off down the dock, suit case in hand, while Cappy dismissed his borrowed car and climbed into the office car with Matt Peasley. Five minutes they waited at the head of the dock—and then four huge motor trucks, laden with mail, lumbered through the dock gate. Cappy beamed into Captain Matt Peasley's face.
“I guess this is a rotten day's work for the president emeritus, eh?” he chuckled. “President emeritus! By the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, if I waited for you and Skinner to get wise to all the good things that are lying round loose, the Blue Star Navigation Company would be in the hands of a receiver within the year. Matt, if you expect to manage the Blue Star you'll have to wake up. You're slow, boy—s-l-o-w-w! For heaven's sake, don't force me back into the harness! You know I've been wanting to retire for years.”
“Well, our messengers are aboard, so let's get out of here. I'm hungry; I haven't had any lunch,” Matt replied.
“Come to think of it,” Cappy answered cheerfully, “I believe I could eat a little something myself. However, I still have one small duty to perform, Matthew. I've got to send a wireless.”
“To whom?”
“That scoundrel Redell, of course. Think I'm going to swat him and leave him in ignorance of the fact?”
Immediately upon arrival at the Commercial Club, Cappy sent the following message:
“J. Augustus Redell,
“Aboard S. S. Moana.
“Augustus, my dear young friend, I have known men who grew rich by keeping their mouths closed!