Cappy Ricks; Or, the Subjugation of Matt Peasley

“The murdering black hound!” Cappy murmured in an awed voice. “If he hasn't gone and killed the best skipper I ever had! Poor Kendall! Why, Noah and I were good friends, Skinner. Every time the Retriever touched in at her home port I always had Noah Kendall up to the house for dinner, and we went to the theatre together afterward. Thank God! It isn't a week since his life insurance premium fell due and I had the cashier pay it.”

Cappy sat gazing dejectedly at the carpet.

“Poor old Cap'n Noah!” he soliloquized aloud. “Twenty-five years you sailed under the Blue Star, and in all that time there was never once when I had to jack up and tell you to 'tend to business. And, Noah, you could make a suit of sails last longer than any man I ever knew; but you did have a hell of a temper.” And having delivered this touching eulogy on the late Captain Kendall, Cappy roused himself and faced Skinner.

“I should say I have a job on my hands,” he announced, “with the finest sailing ship in the fleet down in South Africa without a skipper! Skinner, I'll tell you what you do, my boy: You dictate the nicest letter you know how to dictate to Noah's widow, up in Port Townsend. Tell her how much we thought of Noah and extend our sympathy, and a check for his next three months' salary. Put her on my private pension list, Skinner, and send her Cap'n Noah's salary every quarter-day as long as she lives. Tell her we'll attend to the collection of the life insurance and will bring Noah's body home to Port Townsend at our own expense. It's the least we can do, Skinner. He was the only skipper I ever had who did not, at one time or another, manage to embroil me in a lawsuit. Who are our consignees at Cape Town?”

“The Harlow & Benton Company, Limited.”

“Cable them for confirmation of the mate's message, and request them to have Cap'n Noah's body embalmed and shipped to Port Townsend, Washington, prepaid, deducting charges from our invoice.”

CHAPTER V. MATT PEASLEY ASSUMES OFFICE

The death of Captain Noah Kendall, while profoundly deplored by his next in command, first mate Matthew Peasley, had not been permitted by that brisk young man to interfere in the least with the task of getting the cargo out of the Retriever, for sailoring, like soldiering, is a profession in which sentiment is a secondary consideration. Each day of demurrage to a ship like the Retriever, even at the prevailing low freight rate, meant a loss of at least a hundred dollars to the owners, and since navigating a ship safely and expeditiously is the least of a good skipper's duties, and since, further, Matt Peasley was determined to be a skipper in the not very distant future, he concluded to give his owners evidence of the fact that he was, in addition to being a navigator, also a first-class “hustler.” If the Retriever made a loss on that voyage he was resolved that no blame should attach to him.

“Skipper's dead, Mike,” he announced to Mr. Murphy, the second mate. “Policeman in a small boat alongside says the old man got into a row with the Kru boy that rowed him ashore and the black scoundrel skewered him. I'm going ashore to look after his body and order a tug to kick us into our berth. I guess the old man didn't get time to attend to the business that brought him ashore, poor fellow.”

“Very well, Sir,” Mr. Murphy replied, and murmured some commonplace expression of regret. He was not particularly shocked for he had lost shipmates in a hurry before now.

Matt Peasley proceeded to the beach, attended to the necessary details incident to the skipper's untimely removal, was informed by the Harlow & Benton Company, Limited, of the location of the berth he was to discharge, ordered a tug for that afternoon, went to the cable office, registered his cable address, sent a cablegram to the owners and returned to the ship.

“Well, Mike,” he announced to the second mate, “I guess I'm the skipper; following the same line of deduction, I guess you're the chief mate, so I'll move my dunnage into the old man's cabin and you move into mine. I'll pick up a second mate in Cape Town before we leave.”

Mr. Murphy eyed his youthful superior with mild curiosity, not untempered with amusement. “Thank you for the promotion, Captain Matt,” he replied. “However, if you'll excuse my apparent impudence on the grounds that I'm about fifteen years older than you and have been longer in the Blue Star employ, I'd like to make a suggestion.”

“Fire away, Mike.”

Mr. Murphy hitched his belt, walked to the rail, spat tobacco juice from between his fingers and came back. “You're the youngest chief mate I've ever seen, and this is your first berth in that capacity,” he began. “Suppose you hang on to it and don't be so infernally generous.”

“But you have a first mate's license, haven't you?”

“Certainly. But—”

“No ifs or buts, Mike. The skipper's dead; I was first mate; consequently I take command of the ship, and by virtue of my authority I appoint you first mate. That goes. You'll do one of two things, Mike. You'll be first mate or get out of the ship.”

Michael J. Murphy grinned. “You mean that?”

“Naturally.”

“If you stick by that determination you'll find yourself on the beach in Cape Town, unless you conclude to take my recently vacated berth as second mate. And I'd hate like the devil to have you do that. There's neither sense nor profit for you in swapping jobs with me.”

“But I tell you I'm going to be skipper.”

“I know—until old Cappy Ricks sends down a relief captain. If you promote me now, the relief captain may conclude to retain me as first mate and then you'd have to take my job or quit the ship; and of course I wouldn't care to have that happen. I'd have to quit the ship, too. I wouldn't care to do that. I've made up my mind to sail under the Blue Star flag for the rest of my natural life and I'd hate to have to change my mind.”

“I've made up my mind to the same thing, Mike, and I know I'm not going to change my mind.”

“Well, then, Matt, you stick in your first mate's berth and I'll be satisfied with my second mate's berth.”

“I suppose you'll say next that the relief skipper will be happy in poor old Captain Noah's berth, eh?” Matt interrupted. He grinned at Mr. Murphy.

“Mike, listen to me. There isn't going to be any relief skipper. You're going back to Hoquiam, Grays Harbor, Washington, U. S. A., as chief kicker of the barkentine Retriever, and you're going to take orders from me all the way. In fact, you might as well begin right now. Take your duds and move into my cabin.”

“Matt,” Mr. Murphy pleaded earnestly, “you don't know Cappy Ricks, do you?”

“No, but I'll get acquainted with him in due course. Don't let that worry you Mike.”

“All right, I won't. But what does worry me is the fact that Cappy Ricks doesn't know you.

“Does he know you?”

“No.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yes, by proxy. I've heard a lot about him, and that's why I'm in his employ and resolved to stay there. If a man sails under the Blue Star flag long enough and behaves himself and displays a little human intelligence from time to time sooner or later he gets his chance. Cappy Ricks does all the hiring and firing for the fleet, and whenever he has a good job to fill, he never goes outside his own employ to fill it. He always promotes the deserving. You cabled him, of course, that Captain Kendall has been killed.”

“Yes, I did. And I cabled him also to cable me authority to draw drafts, as skipper, in order to disburse the vessel.”

“Just like a kid! Just like a kid!” Mr. Murphy groaned. “That finishes you, Matt. Cappy'll think you're fresh and you'll be ten years proving to him you are not.”

“It proves I'm on the job,” Matt protested doggedly.

“No matter, Matt. Cappy Ricks will go over the list of his skippers due for promotion into a larger ship and more pay, and right away he'll start Captain Noah's successor for Cape Town to bring the ship home.”

“If he does, Mike, he's crazy.”

“Oh, he's crazy enough, Matt, like a fox—so blamed crazy he will not consider handing over this Retriever to an untried and unknown man who has been in his employ for less than a voyage. Why, I wouldn't myself.”

“Maybe you think he'll hand her over to you?” Matt asked, with the suspicion and impetuosity of youth.

“Boy,” said Mr. Murphy patiently, “you're getting into deep water close to the shore. Starboard your helm and put her on the other tack. If he gives her to me—which he will not—I'll take her. I've been three years in his employ. I'm capable—”

“Mike,” Matt interrupted. “I like you fine, but I want to tell you that if Cappy Ricks cabled you to take charge, I wouldn't let you. I'm next in command, and it's only etiquette that I should have my chance.”

“Then,” Mr. Murphy murmured sententiously, “there'd be a fight with skin gloves and I'm afraid you'd get licked, son. I wasted a good many years in the navy, Matt, and there I learned two things—how to obey and how to fight with my fists. I was the champion amateur light-heavy-weight of the Atlantic fleet, and every once in a while something happens to prove to me that I'm far from being a slouch even at this late date.”

“No offense, Mike. We're crossing our bridges before we come to them, and besides, I didn't intend to be offensive.”

“I understand. Our conversation was entirely academic,” Murphy admitted graciously.

“You said you learned to obey in the navy,” Matt suggested. “What's the matter with obeying my last order?”

“All right, Matt. I'll obey. But remember, I have given you fair warning. If I move into your cabin to-day, I'll not move out when the relief skipper comes.”

“I'll take a chance,” said Matt Peasley.

CHAPTER VI. WORDY WAR AT A DOLLAR A WORD

While the capable Mr. Skinner was preparing the reply to Matt Peasley's cablegram, and dictating for Cappy Ricks' signature a letter to Noah Kendall's widow, Cappy was busy at the telephone. First he retailed the news to the Merchants' Exchange, to be bulletined on the blackboard and read by Captain Noah's friends; next he called up the secretary of the American Shipmasters' Association, of which the deceased had been a member, and lastly he communicated the sad tidings to the water-front reporters of all the daily papers. This detail attended to, Cappy's active mind returned to more practical and profitable affairs, and he took up Matt Peasley's cablegram. He was deep in a study of it when Mr. Skinner entered with the letter to Mrs. Kendall.

“'Captain knifed, killed, Kru boy argument boat fare,'” Cappy read aloud. “Skinner, my dear boy, what is the cable rate per word to Cape Town?”

“Ninety-eight cents per word,” replied Mr. Skinner, who had just looked it up.

“We will if you please, Skinner, confine ourselves to round numbers. There is such a thing as being too exact. Call it a dollar. Figuring on that basis, I see this garrulous mate has squandered five dollars of our money to no purpose—yes, by jingo, more than that. He might have used the code book! Hum-m-m! Ahem! Harump-h-h-h! Skinner, this fellow will not do. He is too windy. Skinner, he tells the story in eight words, and forgets to use his code book. Give me a skipper, Skinner, my boy, who always has his owner's interest at heart and displays a commendable discretion in limiting the depredations practiced by the cable company. For instance, the man Peasley might have omitted the word knifed; also the explanatory words, argument boat fare, and the word mate. Though regretting Noah's demise most keenly, as business men we are not cable-gramically interested in the means employed to accomplish his removal. Neither do the causes leading up to the tragedy interest us. The man Peasley should merely have said “Captain murdered.” Also, he might have trusted to us to realize that when the captain dies the first mate takes charge. He need not have identified himself—the infernal chatter-box!”

Cappy read the next sentence. “Instruct consignees honor my drafts as captain.”

“H'm! Harum-ph! He might have said 'please,' Skinner! Sounds devilishly like an order, the way he puts it. Though he is temporarily in command I challenge his right to handle our money until I know more about him. Harum-ph! Reading between the lines, Skinner, I see he says: 'If you send a skipper to Cape Town to bring the Retriever home while I'm on the job, you're crazy.' Look over the vouchers in Cap'n Noah's last report and let us ascertain how long this forceful mate has been in our employ.”

Now, the ordinary form of receipt to which a seaman puts his signature when signing clear bears upon its reverse side a series of blank spaces, which the captain must fill in. These blanks provide for mention of the date of signing on, date of discharge, station held on vessel and remarks. On none of the vouchers of the Retriever's last voyage, however, did the name of Matthew Peasley appear.

“Must have shipped in San Francisco just before the vessel sailed for her loading port,” Cappy announced. “Send in a boy.”

One of Cappy's young men was summoned.

“Son,” said Cappy, “you run down, like a good boy, to the office of the Deputy United States Shipping Commissioner and tell him Mr. Ricks would like to see the duplicate copy of the crew list of the barkentine Retriever.”

When an American vessel clears for a foreign port the law required that her crew shall be signed on before a Deputy United States Shipping Commissioner, who furnishes a certified copy of the crew list to the captain and retains a duplicate for his own files.

The Blue Star youth returned presently with his duplicate list, on consulting which, to his unspeakable amazement, Cappy Ricks discovered that Matthew Peasley had shipped aboard the Retriever as an able seaman, and that the first mate was one William Olson—which goes to prove that in the heat of passion a skipper will often discharge a mate on the eve of sailing for a foreign port and forget to tell the Deputy Shipping Commissioner anything about it.

“Remarkable,” Cappy declared. “Ree-markable!”

“Dirty work here,” Mr. Skinner announced. “Captain dead and a common A.B. cabling us for authority to draw drafts as captain, while posing as first mate. Nigger in the woodpile somewhere, Mr. Ricks.”

“I'll smoke him out in five minutes, Skinner. Ring up the local inspectors and inquire if, by any chance, they have ever issued a captain's license to one Matthew Peasley.”

Skinner obeyed. After a brief wait he was informed that the said Peasley had an unlimited license as first mate of sail, and was entitled to act as second mate of steam vessels up to five hundred tons net register.

“Nothing doing!” Cappy piped. “Skinner, when a mate with an unlimited license ships before the mast, THERE'S A REASON!”

“Drunkard!” Mr. Skinner suggested without an instant's hesitation.

“Eggs-actly, Skinner. Good seaman, I daresay, but worthless and unreliable in an executive capacity, and I can't trust a ripping fine barkentine like the Retriever with that kind of man. I suppose he feels the hankering for a spree coming on right now. Skinner, if we gave the man Peasley permission to draw drafts he'd paint Cape Town red. I feel it in my bones.”

“So do I, sir.”

“What vessels have we in port at this moment, Skinner?”

“McBride is discharging the Nokomis at Oakland Long Wharf.”

“The ideal man.” Cappy smote his desk. “I've been wanting to promote Mac into a larger vessel and pay him twenty-five dollars a month more for the past two years. He's too good for a little hooker like the Nokomis, and he's got a steady-going Norwegian mate that's been with him in the Nokomis for three years. Time to take care of that mate. Skinner, I have an idea. See that it is carried through. McBride's mate shall buy out Mac's interest in the Nokomis. If he hasn't the money, tell him I'll lend it to him, secured by the insurance, provided he and McBride can come to terms. See that they do. Tell Mac he's to have the Retriever, and I'll arrange to get Cap'n Noah's interest for him from the estate at a fair figure. Give him expense money and his credentials and tell him to start for Cape Town tomorrow night; and cable the man Peasley to retain charge of the vessel at captain's pay until McBride arrives to relieve him.”

Mr. Skinner retired to his office and got down his code book. The general manager knew what he desired to say and hoped he might find something in the code book to help him say it at cut rates, but despairing after a diligent search he finally evolved and dispatched this cablegram to Matt Peasley, addressing it to the cable address of the Retriever.

Having dispatched his message to Matt Peasley, Mr. Skinner, as he thought, had dismissed Peasley from his thoughts forever. It would appear, however, that in this particular the general manager was counting Mother Carey s chickens before they were hatched. He little suspected, in his desire to be fair, even at considerable expense, to inform Matt Peasley just why the Blue Star Navigation Company couldn't possibly hand over its fine barkentine to a stranger, that he had only reopened the controversy; that his unfortunate reference to “meager maritime experience” had flicked Matt Peasley on a raw spot and been provocative of this reply, received the same day:

Mr. Skinner promptly carried this defi to Cappy Ricks.

“He's a sea-lawyer,” Cappy piped angrily. “The scoundrel! The un-mi-ti-ga-ted—scoundrel! Cable him instantly, Skinner, that if he spends another cent of our money in unnecessary cablegrams I'll fire him.” He snapped his fingers. “Attend to it, Skinner, attend to it.”

Mr. Skinner attended to it, and the following morning he found this reply on his desk when he came down to work:

“I dare say the fellow did,” Mr. Skinner informed Cappy. “He has four months' wages coming to him at sixty dollars a month—and if he didn't, why, I'll instruct McBride to deduct the cable charges from his wages when he pays him off.”

“I think your reference to his meager maritime experience annoyed him, Skinner,” Cappy suggested thoughtfully. “It may be that he is a most excellent sailor. At least, he spends his money like one.”

Cappy had no further comment to make, and the reply to this impudent communication was accordingly left to Mr. Skinner, who cabled:

“I think that will settle the upstart,” Mr. Skinner declared confidently as he rang for a messenger boy.

It did not. Four hours later he received this:

Now it was a custom of Mr. Skinner's, when a subordinate laid claim to an inalienable right which the general manager was not willing to concede, to regard with very grave suspicion that subordinate's loyalty to the company. If the subordinate protested Mr. Skinner would warn him, kindly, quietly, but none the less forcefully; and if he persisted Mr. Skinner would dispense with the services of that subordinate so fast the offender, nine times out of ten, would be left standing in a sort of fog and blinking at the suddenness with which the metaphorical can had, metaphorically speaking, been tied to his caudal appendage. Every large business office has its Skinner—a queer combination of decency, honesty, brains and brutality, a worshiper at the shrine of Mammon in the temple of the great god Business, a reactionary Republican, treasurer of his church and eventually a total loss from diabetes, brought on by lack of exercise and worry over trifles.

However, to return to our particular Mr. Skinner and Matt Peasley, the rebellious. In all justice to Skinner it must be admitted that his first impulse with reference to Matt Peasley was eminently fair. He really desired to convey to this persistent person an intimation to the effect that the latter was, colloquially speaking, monkeying with the buzz-saw and in imminent danger of having his head lopped off; and he would have given it, too, provided the delivery of the ultimatum should not have cost the Blue Star Navigation Company ninety-eight cents a word, including the address. Consequently, Skinner, always efficient and realizing that McBride would doubtless be enabled to pick up another mate in Cape Town, or in a pinch, could dispense with a first mate altogether, made answer to Matt Peasley as follows:

Having dispatched this cablegram and ended it all, as it were, Mr. Skinner next cast his cold gray glance adown the duplicate crew list borrowed from the deputy shipping commissioner, and discovered that the second mate shipped at San Francisco was one Christian Swenson.

“I do hope he's not a drinking man,” Skinner sighed. “The Retriever is quite a responsibility to entrust to a man we have never seen or heard of before, but the man Swenson can scarcely be as vicious and insubordinate as this fellow Peasley, and under the circumstances we'll have to run the risk.”

And having wotted the which, Mr. Skinner cabled Christian Swenson to take charge of the Retriever, at master's wages, until the arrival of his successor. Next he cabled The Harlow and Benton Company, Limited, requesting them to pay off Matt Peasley and, if necessary, invoke the authorities to remove him from the vessel.

“That fellow is a tough one to handle,” he remarked to Cappy Ricks, to whom he showed all the cablegrams, “but I guess this will about cut off his wind.”

“A sea lawyer is the curse of the Seven Seas!” Cappy declared waspishly. He was very bitter against Matt Peasley, whom he now regarded as an ally of the piratical cable company.

CHAPTER VII. CAPPY RICKS MAKES BAD MEDICINE

That afternoon Mr. Skinner herded Captain McBride of the Nokomis and his Norwegian mate into Cappy Ricks' office. Cappy brought them to terms very promptly, and the captain started for New York on the Overland the same night. From New York he was to take passage to Liverpool, thence via the A. D. line to Cape Town. Cappy almost had a bloody sweat when he reflected on the expense for provisions and wages for the crew during the weeks of idleness while McBride was on the way to join the Retriever. Both he and Mr. Skinner had decided that nothing could be gained by informing McBride, who was a little, mild-mannered gentleman with gold eyeglasses, of the potential ducking that awaited him at the hands of Matt Peasley; for just before McBride said good-bye and started for the train Cappy and Mr. Skinner discovered that their apple cart again had been upset. The following cablegram received from Matt Peasley knocked into a cocked hat all their high hopes of ridding themselves of the incubus.

“Well,” said Cappy, “what do you know about that? He clings to us like a barnacle or a poor relation—and the worst of it is the damned sea lawyer is absolutely right. We have no authority to fire him, Skinner. Just think of a government that will permit such a ridiculous state of affairs as that to exist! Think of it, Skinner! We hire the man Peasley but we can't fire him—and in the meantime he'll roost in Cap'n Noah's cabin and run up bills on us and consume our groceries and draw master's pay until McBride arrives and discharges him.”

For geographical and financial reasons Cappy Ricks was barred from quarreling with Matt Peasley. However, he was as cross as a setting hen and just naturally had to vent his displeasure on somebody, and as he paid Mr. Skinner a very large salary to be his general manager, he figured he could afford to quarrel with Skinner. So he said:

“Well, Skinner, if you hadn't butted in on the shipping end of the business the man Peasley would not have been given this opening to swat us. It's nuts for a sailor any time he can trip up a landsman, and particularly his owners—”

“You O.K.'d the cablegrams, Mr. Ricks,” Skinner reminded him coldly.

“Don't talk back to me!” Cappy piped. “Not another peep out of you, sir! Not another word of discussion about this matter under any circumstances! I don't want to talk about it further—understand? It's driving me insane. Now, then, Skinner, tell me: If the man Peasley should decline to recognize McBride's authority, what course would you advise pursuing?”

“I do not think he will be that arbitrary, Mr. Ricks. In the first place—”

“Skinner, please do not argue with me. The man Peasley would do anything—”

“Well, in that event, McBride can call in the civil authorities of Cape Town, to remove Peasley by force from the ship.”

“Skinner, you'll drive me to drink! I ask you, has a British official any authority over an American vessel lying in the roadstead? Will a foreign official dare to set foot on an American deck when an American skipper orders him not to do so?”

“I am not a sea lawyer,” Mr. Skinner retorted, “I do not know.”

“The Retriever will have discharged her cargo weeks before McBride arrives. Then suppose Peasley takes a notion to warp his vessel outside the three-mile limit. What authority has McBride got then?”

“I repeat, I am not a sea lawyer, Mr. Ricks.”

“Don't equivocate with me, Skinner! Let's argue this question calmly, coolly and deliberately. Don't lose your temper. Now then. Peasley said he'd throw his successor overboard, didn't he?”

“Oh, merely a threat, Mr. Ricks.”

“Skinner, you're a fine, wise manager! A threat, eh?” Cappy laughed—a short, scornful laugh. “Huh! Threat! Joke!”

“You do not think it is a threat?”

“No, sir. It's a promise. McBride is a splendid little man and game to the core; but no good, game little man will ever stay on a deck if a good, game big man takes a notion to throw him overboard, and the man Peasley is both big and game, otherwise he would not defy us. Why, Skinner, that fellow wouldn't pause at anything. Hasn't he spent over a hundred dollars arguing with us by cable? Why, he's a desperate character! Also, he would not threaten to throw his successor overboard if he didn't know that he was fully capable of so doing. Paste that in your hat, Skinner. It isn't done.” Skinner inclined his head respectfully. Cappy continued: “What I should have done was to have sent a good, game, big man—”

He paused, and his glance met Skinner's wonderingly as a bright idea leaped into his cunning brain and crystallized into definite purpose. He sprang up, waved his skinny old arms, and kicked the waste-basket into a corner of the room.

“I have it, Skinner! I've solved the problem. Go back and 'tend to your lumber business and leave the man Peasley to me. I'll tan that fellow's hide and hang it on my fence, just as sure as George Washington crossed the Delaware River.”

Mr. Skinner, glad to be excused, promptly made his escape. When Cappy Ricks stripped for action, Mr. Skinner knew from long experience that there was going to be a fight or a foot race; that whenever the old gentleman set out to confound an enemy, the inevitable result was wailing and weeping and gnashing of teeth, in which doleful form of exercise Cappy Ricks had never been known to participate.

“Send in a boy!” Cappy ordered as the general manager withdrew.

The boy appeared. “Sonny,” said Cappy Ricks, “do you know All Hands And Feet?” The boy nodded and Cappy continued: “Well, you go down on the Embarcadero, like a good boy, and cruise from Folsom Street to Broadway Wharf Number Two until you find All Hands and Feet. Look in front of cigar stands and in the shipchandlery stores; and if you don't find him in those places run over to the assembly rooms of Harbor Fifteen, Masters' and Pilots' Association, and see if he's there, playing checkers. When you find him tell him Mr. Ricks wants to see him at once.”

CHAPTER VIII. ALL HANDS AND FEET TO THE RESCUE

Captain Ole Peterson was known to the coastwise trade as All Hands And Feet. He was a giant Swede whose feet resembled twin scow models and whose clenched fists, properly smoked and cured, might have passed anywhere for picnic hams. He was intelligent, competent and belligerent, with a broad face, slightly dished and plentifully scarred, while his wide flat nose had been stove in and shifted hard a-starboard. Cappy Ricks liked him, respected his ability and found him amusing as one finds an educated bear amusing. He had a reputation for being the undefeated rough and tumble champion of Sweden and the United States.

“You ban vant to see me, sir?” he rumbled as, hat in hand, he stood beside Cappy Ricks' desk half an hour later. Compared with the huge Swede, Cappy looked like a watch charm.

“Sit down, captain,” Cappy replied amiably. “I hear you're out of a job. Why?”

Briefly All Hands And Feet explained what Cappy already knew; that his last command, being old and rotten and over-loaded, had worked apart in a seaway and fallen to pieces under him. The inspectors had held him blameless.

“I have a job for you, Ole,” Cappy announced. “But there's a string attached to it.”

“Aye ban able to pull strings, sir,” Ole reminded him.

Cappy smiled, and outlined to the Swede the conditions surrounding the barkentine Retriever. “I'm going to give you command of the Retriever,” he continued confidentially. “You are to bring her home from Cape Town, and when you get back I'll have a staunch four-masted schooner waiting for you. I was going to send McBride of the Nokomis on this job, but thought better of it, for the reason that Mac may not be physically equipped to perform the additional task I have in mind and I believe you are. Peterson, if you want a steady job skippering for the Blue Star Navigation Company you've got to earn it, and to earn it you've got to give this fellow Peasley a good sound thrashing for the good of his immortal soul. The very moment you step aboard the Retriever let him know you're the master.”

“Do you tank he ban villin' to fight?” Ole demanded.

“Something tells me he will. However, in case he doesn't, don't let that embarrass you. Man-handle him until he does. Let me impress upon you, captain, the fact that I want the man Peasley summarily chastised for impudence and insubordination.”

“All right, sir,” said Ole. “Aye ban work him over.” To be asked to fight for a job was to this descendant of the Vikings the ne plus ultra of sportsmanship. “Aye never ban licked yet,” he added reminiscently.

“When we cabled we were sending a man to relieve him,” Cappy complained, “he replied, telling us to insure his successor's life, because he was going to throw him overboard the minute he arrived.”

All Hands And Feet swept away any lingering fears Cappy might chance to be entertaining. “Aye ban weigh two hundret an' saxty pounds,” he announced.

“Which being the case,” Cappy warned him, “should he succeed in throwing YOU overboard I should consider you unfit for a job in my employ.” (The old fox had not the slightest idea such a contretemps was possible, but in order to play safe he considered it good policy to hearten Ole for the fray.) “Should he defeat you, captain, I have no hesitancy in saying to you now that such a misfortune would have a most disastrous effect on your future in my employ. You know me. When I order a job done, I want it done, and I want it done well. Understand! I don't want you to maim or kill the man, but just give him a good sound—er—commercial thrashing; and after you've tamed him I want you to—”

All Hands And Feet nodded his comprehension.

“An',” he interrupted, “after aye ban slap him once or twice aye ban give good kick under de coattail an' fire dis fresh guy—eh?” he suggested.

“Fire nothing!” shrilled Cappy. “You follow instructions, Ole, or I'll fire you! No, sir. After you've thrashed him I want you to bend a rope round him amidships and souse him overside to bring him to! Remember, we fired him once and he would not be fired. The damned sea lawyer quoted the salt-water code to us and said he'd shipped for the round trip; so we'll take him at his word. He's your first mate, captain. Bring him back to Grays Harbor with you; and then, if you feel so inclined, you may apply the tip of your number twenty-four sea boot where it will do the most good; in fact, I should prefer it. But by all means see to it that he completes his contract with the barkentine Retriever.”

“Aye skoll see to it,” Ole promised fervently.

“I thank you, captain. Come out in the general office now and I'll introduce you to the cashier, who will furnish you with expense money. Meantime, I'll have Skinner fill out a certificate of change of masters and have it registered at the custom-house. Can't send you down there without your credentials, you know.”

All Hands And Feet mumbled his thanks; for, indeed, he was grateful for this chance to prove his metal. Calm in the knowledge of his past performances, he took no thought of the personal issue with Matt Peasley, for never had he met a mate he could not thrash. He followed Cappy out to the cashier's desk; and while the latter equipped All Hands And Feet for his journey to South Africa, and Mr. Skinner departed for the custom-house to have the certificate registered, Cappy wired McBride, aboard the Overland speeding east, instructing him to come back to San Francisco.

When Skinner returned to the office he found Cappy clawing nervously at his whiskers.

“The man Peasley has completely disrupted our organization,” he complained bitterly. “Here I go to work and promote McBride to the Retriever to make room for his mate in the Nokomis, and now I have to recall Mac and give the Retriever to All Hands And Feet until she gets back to Grays Harbor; in consequence of which Mac hasn't a thing to do for four months and draws full pay for doing it, and later I've got to provide a permanent place for All Hands And Feet! Skinner, if this continues, I shall yet fill a pauper's grave.” He was silent for several seconds; then: “By the way, Skinner, have you replied to that last cablegram from the man Peasley?”

“No, sir. I didn't think it required an answer.”

“You mean you didn't know what answer to give him,” Cappy snarled. “Well, neither do I; but since the cuss has got us into the spending habit, I'm going to be reckless for once and send him a cable myself, just to let him know I'm calling his bluff.”

And, with that remark, Cappy squared round to his desk and wrote, in a trembling hand: “Special messenger big as horse carries reply your last cablegram.”

“There,” he said, turning to his general manager; “send that to the man Peasley, and sign my name to it.”

CHAPTER IX. MR. MURPHY ADVISES PREPAREDNESS

Matt Peasley said nothing to Mr. Murphy when Cappy Ricks' cryptic cablegram was received. Insofar as Matt was concerned, that cablegram closed the argument, for even had it seemed to demand a reply the master of the Retriever would not—nay could not, have answered, for the controversy had already ruined him financially. So he went on briskly with his task of discharging the Retriever and when the A. D. liner pulled out for Liverpool with Captain Noah's body on board, he laid off work merely long enough to dip the ensign and run it to half mast again until the steamer was out of sight; then he furled the flag, stored it in the locker in Captain Noah's stateroom, into which he had now moved, and went on superintending the discharging. When the vessel was empty he had a tug tow him out into the roadstead, where he cast anchor and set himself patiently to await the arrival of the special messenger “as big as a horse.”

Somehow Matt didn't relish that little dash of descriptive writing. In conjunction with the noun horse Cappy Ricks had employed the indefinite article a, and while a horse was a horse and Cappy might have had a Shetland pony in mind when he coined the simile, nevertheless, a still small voice whispered to Matt Peasley that at the time Cappy was really thinking of a Percheron. The longer Matt chewed the cud of anticipation the more acute grew his regret that he had threatened to throw his successor overboard. He traced a certain analogy between that threat and Cappy Ricks' simple declarative sentence, and finally he decided to take Mr. Murphy into his confidence.

“Mike,” he said, “did you ever hear any gossip to the effect that Cappy Ricks will swallow a bluff?”

“No, I never have,” Mr. Murphy replied. “Why do you ask? You been trying to bluff him, Matt?”

“No, I really meant it when I said it, and if I'm crowded I'll make good, but somehow I wish I hadn't said it. It wasn't dignified.”

“What did you say, Matt?”

“I cabled the owners that if they sent a skipper down here to relieve me they had better insure his life, because I'd throw him overboard upon arrival.”

“Why, that's war talk,” Mr. Murphy declared, highly scandalized. “I don't think Cappy Ricks will stand for that. I know blame well I wouldn't.”

“What would you do, Mike, if you stood in Cappy's shoes and I sent you that cablegram?”

“Well,” Mr. Murphy mused, “of course I'd be a little old man weighing about a hundred and thirty pounds ring-side, and I wouldn't be able to thrash you myself, but if it took my last dollar I'd send somebody down here to do the job for me.

“Well, I guess that's just about what Cappy has done,” Matt admitted, and handed his mate Cappy's cablegram.

“Hah-hah!” Mr. Murphy commented. “That threat got past the general manager, right up to headquarters. Why, the old man signed this cablegram and they do say that when Cappy takes personal charge the fur begins to fly. Matt, if I was a drinking man I'd offer to bet you a scuttle of grog it's a case of die dog, or eat the meat-axe. Your bluff has been called, my son.”

“Then,” Matt averred impudently, “the only thing for me to do is to call Cappy's.”

“How?”

“Why, give his messenger a good trouncing, of course. You don't suppose I'm going to stand by and take a thrashing or let the other fellow heave me overboard, do you? I should say not!”

Mr. Murphy puffed at his pipe, in silence for several minutes, the while he pondered the situation. Presently he arrived at a solution.

“He wouldn't send a prize-fighter down here, just to lick you,” he announced. “The old man is the wildest spendthrift on earth when you get him started, but as a general rule his middle name is Tight Wad. He would select a combination of scrapper and skipper, and there are any number of such combinations on the beach of 'Frisco town. I could name you a dozen off-hand, and any one of the dozen would make you mind your P's and Q's, big as you are. Still, they all fight alike—rough and tumble, catch-as-catch-can. They come wading in, swinging both arms and you could sail the Retriever through the openings they leave. Know anything about boxing, Matt?”

“Not a thing, Mike. I've always had to climb the big fellows.”

“Then I'll teach you,” Mr. Murphy announced with conviction. “You're in fine shape now—as right as a fox and fit to tackle the finest, but there isn't any sense in getting mauled up when you don't have to. I'll go ashore and buy a set of six-ounce gloves, a set of two-ounce gloves and a punching bag. For the next three weeks you won't have anything to do except prepare for the battle, and I can teach you a lot of good stuff in three weeks. To be fore-warned is to be fore-armed, Matt, and if Cappy has sent a Holy Terror to clean you, give him a regular fight, even if he licks you.”

Matt Peasley nodded. He entertained a profound respect for Mr. Murphy's judgment.