Gappy Ricks sprang into the air and tried to crack his aged ankles together.
“Saved!” he croaked. “By the Holy Pink-toed Prophet! Saved! Bully for Mike Murphy! Say, when that fellow gets back, if I don't do something handsome for him—”
Matt Peasley's scowls had been replaced by smiles.
“God bless his old Mickedonian heart!” he said fervently. “He thinks the coal is for that British fleet reported to be en route across the Atlantic to give battle to the German Pacific fleet; or for Admiral Craddock's Pacific fleet in case the Germans chase it back into the Atlantic. He knows that we know he is pro-German and for anything that's against England—and if he makes up his mind the coal is for the British fleet he'll resign before delivering it! By Judas, this would be funny if it wasn't so blamed serious.”
“To be forewarned is to be forearmed,” Mr. Skinner quoted sagely. “It is most fortunate for us that Murphy's suspicions do us a grave injustice. We know now that he will call on the American consul at Pernambuco and ask for a cablegram.”
“Yes, and by thunder! we'll send it,” Cappy declared joyously. “Cable him, Skinner, to fire that German crew so fast one might play checkers on their coat tails as they go overside.”
“I wish to heaven I could wireless him to put back to New York and ship a new crew,” Matt Peasley mourned. “There's just a possibility that German crew of his may take over the ship on the high seas and not put into Pernambuco at all!”
“We can only wait and pray,” said Mr. Skinner piously.
Cappy Ricks slid out to the edge of his chair and, pop-eyed with horror, gazed at his son-in-law over the rims of his spectacles.
“Matt,” he declared, “you're as cheerful as a funeral. Here we have this thing all settled, and you have to go to work and rip the silver lining out of our cloud of contentment. And the worst of it is, by golly, I think there's something in that theory of yours after all.”