Mr. Skinner looked a little startled and surprised, but promptly closed the door.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Ricks?” he queried.
Cappy Ricks edged forward until he was seated on the extreme edge of his chair. Then he rested a hand on each knee, bent his head, and glared at the unhappy Skinner over the rims of his glasses. After thirty seconds of this scrutiny he turned to his son-in-law.
“Well,” he said, “I hear you've been attending an auction sale and making a star-spangled monkey of yourself bidding a million seven hundred and sixty thousand dollars on that Mexican steamer. Matt, have you taken leave of your senses?”
“No, sir—not quite; but Gus Redell has. He bought her in for two million dollars. Of course he was acting for somebody else, because every cent he has is working overtime in the West Coast Trading Company.”
“Oh!” Cappy murmured. “Then you didn't get her, after all?”
“No, sir! So perhaps you'd better not holler until you're hit.” Matt sighed. “By Neptune,” he declared, “I'd give a cooky to know the name of the crazy man who paid two million dollars for that steamer!”
“Behold the lunatic, Matt! Grandpa Ricks, in his second childhood! Gus Redell was bidding for me, sonny.”
Matt Peasley sat down rather limply and stared at the president emeritus.
“Cappy,” he said presently, “you sent a boy to do a man's work. I had the boat bought for a million seven hundred and sixty thousand! For heaven's sake, why didn't you tell me you wanted her? And I would have laid off. For the love of heaven, why did you go bidding against me?”