“What are you soaking the Blue Star Navigation Company for it?”
“Six,” Skinner confessed miserably.
“That's all right, Skinner, my boy. Cheer up! I forgive you. That little profit of one per cent saves your bacon, boy. I guess there's some good left in you still; and I'm happy to have this evidence that, though I own both companies, you have not forgotten you are responsible for the profit-and-loss account of one of them, and Matt Peasley for the other. You did quite right to claim that one per cent jerk from Matt. Business is business!”
“Yes, you bet it is!” Matt Peasley struck in. “And I want you to lay off on Skinner, because what he did was done in fear and trembling, and under duress. We were both afraid you'd block the purchase; so we agreed to keep our plans secret from you, because—Well, somehow I did want that bully big boat the very worst way.”
“And that's exactly the way you set about getting her, Matthew. However, you're young—you don't know any better; so I forgive you. Of course I realized you wanted, that steamer, boy. I knew your heart was set on seeing our house flag floating from her mainstruck; so I—Well, I just thought I'd get her for you, to sort of square myself for those two bonehead plays I pulled earlier in the year.”
“Oh, but you shouldn't have paid two millions for her, Cappy! Business is one thing and sentiment is another.”
“Why, I didn't pay any such price for her! Originally I bought her, as a German, for three hundred thousand dollars; in addition to that I've spent about ten thousand dollars improving her, and maybe five thousand more fussing up the trail of my operations so no smart secret-service operative could come round and hang something on me.” He reached into his coat pocket and drew forth the United States Marshal's bill of sale. “Here, sonny,” he announced, “is your Uncle Sam's certificate of title. Hustle up to the customhouse and get it recorded; then make out a bill of sale for a one-third interest to the West Coast Trading Company and record that also. Then change her name to Alden M. Peasley, in honor of your first-born, and put her under these two flags.”
He jerked open a drawer in the desk and brought forth a bright new edition of Old Glory, followed by the familiar white muslin burgee with the blue star.
“Skinner!”
“Yes, Mr. Ricks.”