“CAPPY.”
“There!” said Cappy, as he dispatched this simple declarative sentence. “I'll wager one small five-cent bag of smoking tobacco our friend Gus Redell will not sleep to-night. He'll just lie awake wondering what in Sam Hill I meant by that.”
When he got back to his office he found an aerogram, which read as follows:
“Alden P. Ricks
“258 California Street
“San Francisco
“Everything lovely. After getting aboard decided to bluff; went to Redell, told him I was your representative. He went green clear back of the ears; said he had observed delay in sailing. Told him he'd better quit and go ashore with pilot; that I had bank roll choke hippopotamus. Your wireless handed him that moment! Would hesitate repeat his language. Have agreed pay him for his first-class ticket. All first-class cabins sold out; had to have it for Matilda. Steerage an awful place for a skipper, but will have to make the best of it.
“MUHPHY.”
Mr. Skinner, alarmed at the shrill screams emanating from Cappy Ricks' office, rushed in and found the president emeritus rolling round in his swivel chair, beating the air and stamping on the floor.
“Good gracious, Mr. Ricks!” Skinner cried. “What's the matter? Are you hurt?”