Four months had passed since the Ecudorian had spoken Matt Peasley off the coast of Formosa; during that period no further news had been received in Cappy Ricks' office, although the diligent Skinner, aided and abetted by the waterfront reporters, managed to have a piece of cheering information for Florry about every two weeks. And, in order to forestall any possibility of some garrulous girl friend, with a male relative in the shipping business, “spilling the beans,” as Cappy expressed it, the old man had taken a house in the country, and came to the office only twice a week to mourn for his lost Matthew and glean what little comfort he could from the empty words of hope Mr. Skinner dispensed so lavishly.
“If we can only keep Florry buoyed up with hope until the baby comes!” Cappy would groan. “She's worried; but, strange to say, Skinner, she hasn't the slightest idea he's in any danger. Those fake cablegrams and reports of ships speaking Matt—each time closer to home—have done the trick, Skinner. Of course the boy's dead, and I killed him; but Florry—well, she took a trip on the Retriever and knows how safe she is, and I've had a lot of old sailing skippers down to visit me, and primed them to tell her just how they would get away with such a proposition as Matt's—and how easy it would be. Besides, she knows Matt had some plague prophylactic aboard—”
“Yes; and I've told her she mustn't show the white feather—for your sake,” Mr. Skinner interrupted; “and I think she's sensible enough to know she mustn't permit herself to show it—for the baby's sake.”
Cappy bowed his head and shook like a hooked fish.
“When the baby's two weeks old I'll tell her,” he moaned. “Oh, Skinner, Skinner, my dear boy, this is going to kill me! I won't last long now, Skinner. All my fault! I had to go butting in. That girl's heart is breaking with anxiety. When she comes down to breakfast, Skinner, I can see she's been crying all night.”
“Horrible!” Mr. Skinner murmured. “Horrible! We can only hope.”
On the twelfth of September Florry's baby was born. It was a boy, and a bouncing boy at that; and Cappy Ricks forgot for the moment he had rendered that baby fatherless, and came up to the city to report the news to Skinner.
“Well, Skinner, my dear boy,” he announced with just a touch of his old-time jauntiness, “little Matthew just arrived! Everything lovely.”
Mr. Skinner was about to formulate suitable phrases of congratulation when the telephone bell rang. It was Jerry Dooley up at the Merchants' Exchange; and he was all excitement.
“Hey, Skinner,” he cried. “The Retriever is passing in!”