“I have a condition and I offer you a half interest in it if you can suggest a plan to circumvent His Royal Highness, Kaiser Wilhelm—”
“Hum-m-m! Enough!” Cappy interrupted, and turned to the British Consul: “This is an international affair, eh? See if I don't state the proposition in a nutshell—if I may be pardoned the bromide. This steamer is a German, and the proposition is to get her under the American flag so firmly that she'll stay there; then, I suppose, we're to charter her to the British Government, or one of Britain's allies—Russia, for instance.”
J. Augustus Redell and the British Consul exchanged admiring winks.
“What did I tell you, Mister Consul?” Redell declared triumphantly. “Mr. Ricks knows the story before we have told it. And yet he's complaining about the loss of his punch!”
Cappy looked slightly self-conscious; it was plain the compliment pleased him.
“Well, Gus, my boy,” he answered, “I have lost my punch, though at that I'm not exactly a pork-and-beaner. Hum-m-m! Ahem! Harumph-h-h! This must be a hard order to fill. Mister Consul, when Gus Redell has to come to me for help. That son of a gun can move faster and go through more obstacles than quicksilver. Gus, what's gone wrong with you? Have you lost your punch too? And at your age?”
“Looks like it, Cappy. I've thought and thought until I'm desperate, and not an idea worth while has presented itself. That's why I've come to you.”
“Well, I don't guarantee a cure, my boy. But I'll say this much: If you and I can't put this thing over, then it just isn't put-overable. Fire away, Gus!”
“Have you ever heard of the steamer Bavarian?”
“Of course! She belongs to Adolph Koenitz and flies the German flag. Since the war started she's been interned down in Mission Bay.”