"Vat you ban tankin' of?" he roared furiously. "You damned landsman! Don't you know enough to discharge dot cargo over der lee rail?"

Having disposed of a hearty breakfast, Matt raised his green face and stared sheepishly at the Finn. "You didn't get sprayed, did you, sir?" he queried breathlessly.

"No, but who der devil ever heard of a seaman gettin' sick to windward—?"

"I know it looks awful, sir," quavered Matt. "I thought something like this might happen, and in order to be prepared for eventualities I hung a fire bucket over the edge of the weather-bridge railing and set another there by the binnacle. The man at the wheel got me started, sir. He asked me if I liked fat pork. Can't you see that if I had made a quick run for the lee rail while the vessel was pitching to leeward the chances are I'd continue right on overboard? As soon as I get my bearings again I'll empty the bucket, sir."

"Der fire buckets ban't for dot purpose."

"All right, sir. I'll buy you a new fire bucket when we get to Eureka," Matt answered contritely.

Kjellin stayed on the bridge a few minutes, growling and glaring, but Matt was too ill and dispirited to pay any attention to him, so finally he went below.

The Quickstep bucked the gale all the way to Humboldt Bar, and tied up at the first mill dock at half past one o'clock on Friday. It was two o'clock before the passengers and their baggage had been sent ashore, but the minute the last trunk went over the rail the loading began.

"We'll work overtime again to-night," the first mate told Matt at luncheon. "The old man will drive us hard to-morrow, and we'll have more overtime Saturday night so we can get to sea early Sunday morning."

"I don't care," Matt replied. "I get seventy-five cents an hour for my overtime, and I'm big enough to stand a lot of that. But, believe me, I'll jump lively. The old man's out of sorts on account of the delay due to that head wind."

At three o'clock the captain walked aft, where Matt Peasley was superintending the stowing in the after hold.

"Is dot all you've got to do," he sneered—"settin' roundt mit your hands in your poggeds?"

Matt glared at him. True, his hands were in his pockets at that moment, but he was not setting round. He was watching a slingload of shingles hovering high over the hatch, and the instant it was lowered he intended to leap upon it, unship the cargo hook, hang the spare cargo net on it and whistle to the winchman to hoist away for another slingload. He controlled his temper and said:

"I'm doing the best I can, sir. That winchman doesn't have to wait on us a second, sir. We handle them as fast as they swing them in from the mill dock."

"Yump in an' do somedings yourself," Kjellin growled. "Don't stand roundt like a young leddy."

"D'ye mean you want I should mule shingles round in this hold like a longshoreman?"

"Sure! Ve got to get to sea Sunday morning, und every liddle bit helps."

"Well, then you'll get along without my little bit. If you don't know your business, sir, I know mine. Somebody's got to tend that sling, and everybody's business is nobody's business. If I'm not on the job a bundle of shingles may come flying down from above and kill a man, or that heavy cargo block may crack a stevedore on the head. Who's going to look after the broken bundles and see that they're repacked if I don't? I can't do that and mule shingles round in this hold, sir; and what's more I'm not going to do it."

"Den, by yimminy, you get off der ship!" the captain roared. "I don't vant no loafers aboard my boat, und if you tank—"

"Stow the gab, you big Finn! I'm through. Pay me off and help yourself to another second mate." And Matt put on his coat and whistled to the winchman to steady his slingload while he climbed out of the hold. Kjellin followed and Matt preceded him to his stateroom, where the captain paid him the few dollars he had coming to him.

"Sign clear," he ordered, and Matt took an indelible pencil and stooped over the skipper's desk to sign the pay roll. As he straightened up the captain's powerful left forearm came round Matt's left shoulder and under his chin, tilting his head backward, while the Finn's left knee ground into the small of his back. He was held as in a vise, helpless, and Kjellin spoke:

"Ven I get fresh young faler like you, an' he quit me cold, I lick him after I pay him off."

"I see," Matt replied calmly. "That makes it a plain case of assault and battery, whereas if you lick him before you pay him off, he can sue your owners. You're a fine, smart squarehead!"

"You bet!" Kjellin answered, and struck him a stunning blow behind the ear. Matt, realizing his inability to wriggle out of the captain's grasp, kicked backward with his right foot and caught the Finn squarely on the right shin, splintering the bone. The captain cried out with the pain of it and released the pressure on Matt's chin, whereupon the latter whirled, picked the Finn up bodily, and threw him through the stateroom door out onto the deck, where he struck the pipe railing and rebounded. He lay where he fell, and when Matt's brain cleared and he came out on deck the captain was moaning.

"Get up, you brute!" Matt ordered. "You got the wrong pig by the ear that time."

"My leg ban broken," Kjellin whimpered.

"I wish it was your neck," Matt replied with feeling, and bent over to examine his fallen foe. When he grasped Kjellin by the right shoulder, however, the Finn screamed with pain, so Matt called the steward, and together they lifted him and carried him to his berth.

"I'll bet a cooky you're a total loss and no accident insurance," Matt soliloquized. "You're not worth it, but for the sake of the owners I'll get a doctor to look you over," and he went ashore at once. When the doctor had looked Thorwald Kjellin over his verdict was a broken tibia, a broken radius and a broken clavicle.

Matt was concerned. "I don't think I ever had any of those things to get broken," he declared humorously, "but if mere words mean anything I'll bet this is a hospital job." The doctor nodded, and Matt turned to the captain: "Do you want to go to the hospital in Eureka or in San Francisco?"

"I ban vant to go home," the Finn moaned.

"Very well, captain; I guess your successor will bring you there. I'm going up to the mill office now to report to the owners by telephone."

"Dot ban't none o' your business, Peasley," Kjellin protested. "Dot is der first mate's job. You ban fired."

"Yes, I know. Now I'm back-firing," Matt retorted.

Fifteen minutes later he had Cappy Ricks on the long-distance telephone.

"Mr. Ricks," he began, "this is Peasley talking from Eureka. I have to report that I'm fired out of the Quickstep. I'm not complaining about that or asking you to reinstate me, because I can get another job now, but I want to tell you why I was fired. The captain got a grouch against me coming up. We had a nor'west gale on our port counter and she rolled and bucked until even some of the crew got seasick. I'm ashamed to say I fell by the wayside myself for a few minutes, and Captain Kjellin caught me draped over the weather bridge railing. So I guess he thought I wasn't much of a seaman. Anyhow he picked on me from then on, and a little while ago he ordered me to mule shingles with the longshoremen in the after hold. I couldn't do that, Mr. Ricks. I'm a ship's officer, and besides you've simply got to have somebody to watch the slings when they're coming into the ship at the rate of two a minute or somebody will get hurt, and then the vessel will be sued for damages. You see we were working overtime and in a hurry to get loaded—"

"I see everything," Cappy retorted. "What happened next?"

"The captain got me foul in his cabin when I went to be paid off, and hung a shanty back of my ear, so I threw him out on deck and hurt him. You'll have to send a new skipper up to bring the Quickstep home, sir. The first mate is a good man but he hasn't a master's license—"

"What did you do to Kjellin, Matt?"

"You'll have to ask a doctor, sir. I didn't intend to break him up, but it seems I damaged all his Latin superstructure, and he'll have to go to a hospital for a couple of months. I'm sorry I hurt your skipper, sir, and I felt I couldn't leave your employ, Mr. Ricks, without an explanation."

"You haven't left my employ at all. Get back on the job and load that vessel, or the first thing you know you'll be stuck in port over Sunday, and that's not the way to make a start as master of the Quickstep. You have a license as master of steam, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir. I can handle her, sir."

"Then do it and don't stand there burning up good money on the long-distance phone. The Quickstep is yours—on one condition."

"I accept it, sir," Matt exclaimed, overjoyed. "What is it?"

"That you stick in her at least six months."

"I will if I live and she floats that long, sir. Thank you. Please have a second mate and an ambulance waiting for me at Meiggs Wharf on Monday. I'll touch in there on my way up river to discharge what's left of your skipper."



CHAPTER XXX. MR. SKINNER HEARS A LECTURE

Down in the offices of the Blue Star Navigation Company Cappy Ricks, having summoned Mr. Skinner, sat peering whimsically at the general manager over the rims of his spectacles. "Well, Skinner, my dear boy," he announced presently, "sure enough there was something wrong with the Quickstep, and now I know what it is; she has had the wrong master. When he hustles to catch a tide or to get to sea Saturday night or Sunday morning he drives his mates and tries to make them do longshoremen's work. When he bullied a weak mate into doing that, there was nobody to pay exclusive attention to the slingloads as they came into the ship, and naturally accidents resulted. When strong second mates refused he fired them, and after firing them he cornered them in his cabin, held them foul and beat them. You see, Skinner, this skookum skipper of yours didn't realize that with two slingloads of shingles a minute dropping into the ship he had to have a man on the job to watch the loading and do nothing else; and because he didn't realize the error of his way, Skinner, he and Matt Peasley have pulled off that little skin-glove contest, and now Kjellin looks like a barrel of cement that's been dropped out the window of a six-story building. Hum! Ahem! Harump-h-h-h! Call up the attorney for that man Jacobsen that's suing the Quickstep, and tell him to come down here with his man and we'll settle the case out of court. His charge lies against Kjellin for assault and battery, but after all, Skinner, I dare say we are in a measure responsible for our servants. I'll give the attorney about twenty-five dollars for his fee, and er—the man Jacobsen—let me see, Skinner, he had a broken nose, did he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"We'll pay his doctor bill and his wages as second mate since Kjellin fired him, and give him a hundred dollars extra."

"How about Kjellin's hospital bill?"

"I disclaim responsibility, Skinner. Did he settle up with the cashier for his last voyage?"

"Yes, Mr. Ricks."

"Then send him a wireless and tell him he's fired. Also, Skinner, my boy, see that an ambulance is waiting for him at Meiggs Wharf when he arrives on the Quickstep on Monday. We'll show him we're not entirely heartless. Make it clear, however, that this office will not be responsible for the ambulance fee. Matt will bring the vessel down without a second mate, I dare say. He'll stand a watch himself. Better call up Harbor 15 and see if there isn't a second mate out of a job hanging round there, and tell him to join the ship at Meiggs Wharf."

Mr. Skinner's eyes fairly popped. "You don't mean to tell me, sir, that you've given the Quickstep to that rowdy Peasley?"

Cappy relapsed into the colloquialism of the younger generation with which he was wont to associate at luncheon. "Surest thing you know," he said.

"If I may be permitted a criticism, Mr. Ricks—"

"You may not."

"Your sentimental leaning toward your fellow townsman may be the cause of losing one of the best paying ships of the fleet."

"Forget it, Skinner!"

"Oh, very well. You're the boss, Mr. Ricks. But if I were in your place I would have an older and more experienced man to relieve him the moment he comes into the bay. You must remember, Mr. Ricks, that while he may run her very nicely during the summer months, he has had no experience on Humboldt Bay during the winter months—"

"Skinner, the only way he'll ever accumulate experience on that bar is to give him the opportunity."

"He'll take big risks. He's very young and headstrong."

"I admit he's fiery. But I promised him a ship, and he's earned her sooner than I planned, so, even if my decision loses the Quickstep for us, he shall have her. I'll be swindled if I ever did see the like of that boy Matt. He gets results. And do you know why, Skinner?"

"Because," Mr. Skinner replied coldly, "he's a huge, healthy animal, able and willing to fight his way in any ship, and at the same time clever enough to take advantage of your paternal interest in him—"

"Rats! I'll give you the answer, Skinner, my boy: He gets results because he does his duty and doesn't sidestep for man or devil. And he's able to do his duty and do it well because he has a clear understanding of what his duty is—and that, Skinner, is the kind of skipper material I've been looking for all my life. As for the boy's horsepower, let me tell you this: If Matt Peasley wasn't any bigger than I am, he'd fight any man that tried to walk over him. It's in his breed. Damn it, sir, he's a Yankee skipper, and when you've said that you're through. I guess I know. How much have we been paying that bully Kjellin?"

"Two hundred a month."

"Too much! Pay Matt two-twenty-five and attend to the certificate of change of masters."

When Mr. Skinner had departed Cappy sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, as was his habit when his gigantic brain grappled with a problem of more than ordinary dimensions. For fully ten minutes he sat absolutely motionless, then suddenly he straightened up like a jack-in-the-box and summoned Mr. Skinner.

"Skinner," he said plaintively, "I'm feeling a little run down. Will you please be good enough to book Florry and me passage to Europe right away. I've never been to Europe, you know, Skinner, and I think it's time I took a vacation."

Mr. Skinner smiled. "Why all the hurry?" he queried.

"I want to try out a theory," Cappy replied. "I have a great curiosity, Skinner, to ascertain if there is any truth in the old saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder. And if it does, Skinner—why, the sooner I start the sooner I can get back."

Mr. Skinner went out mystified. As Mark Twain's friend, Mr. Ballou, remarked about the coffee, Cappy Ricks was a little too "technical" for him.



CHAPTER XXXI. INTERNAL COMBUSTION

The Quickstep had arrived in port again before Cappy Ricks and Florry could get away to Europe, so Matt came down by train from Los Medanos and was granted the meager comfort of a farewell with his heart's desire. Thereafter all comfort fled his life, for, with Cappy Ricks away, Mr. Skinner was high and low justice, and he was not long keeping Matt Peasley in ignorance of the fact that it was one thing to skipper a Blue Star ship for Cappy Ricks and quite another thing to skipper the same ship for the Blue Star manager. For Mr. Skinner had never liked Captain Peasley, and, moreover, he never intended to, for the master of the Quickstep was not sufficiently submissive to earn the general manager's approbation as a desirable employee, and Cappy Ricks was the only man with a will and a way of his own who could get along amicably in the same office with the efficient and cold-blooded Mr. Skinner.

Cappy wasn't outside Sandy Hook before Mr. Skinner had Matt on the carpet for daring to bring the Quickstep up river without a pilot. He demanded an explanation.

"I made careful note of all the twists and turns when the pilot took me up the first time," Matt declared. "It isn't a difficult channel, so I decided to save forty-five dollars the next time and take her up myself."

"Suppose you'd buried her nose in the mud and we'd had to lighter her deckload to get her off," Mr. Skinner suggested.

Matt grinned. "If your aunt was a man she'd be your uncle, wouldn't she?" he parried. He had made up his mind not to take Mr. Skinner seriously. Mr. Skinner flushed, looked dangerous, but concluded not to pursue the investigation further.

Three weeks later, when making up to a dock at San Pedro, a strong ebb tide and a mistake in judgment swung the bow of the Quickstep into the end of the dock and a dolphin was torn out. In the fullness of time the Blue Star Navigation Company was in receipt of a bill for $112 dock repairs, whereupon Mr. Skinner wrote Matt, prefacing his letter with the query: "Referring to inclosed bill—how did this happen?" Then he went on to scold Matt bitterly for his inability to handle his ship properly in making up to a dock.

Matt promptly returned Mr. Skinner his own letter, with this penciled memorandum at the bottom of the page: "Referring to inclosed bill for dock repairs—the dock happened to be in my course. That's the only way I can account for it."

For some time, whenever the Quickstep carried shingle cargoes for the Shingle Association, there had been disputes over her freight bill, due to continued discrepancies between the tally in and the tally out, and Mr. Skinner had instructed Matt to tally his next cargo into the ship himself and then tally it out again. Matt engaged a certified lumber surveyor at five dollars a day to do the tallying at the various mills, but at Los Medanos he tallied the cargo out personally. To a shingle it agreed with the mill tally. Subsequently the manager of the drying yard reported a shortage of eight thousand shingles, and again Mr. Skinner wrote Matt for an explanation, to which Matt replied as follows:

"Do not pay any attention to the yard manager's tally. Ours is right. A certified tallyman counted 11,487,250 in, and I counted 11,487,250 out, as I have already reported. Sorry I cannot reverse my decision. However, I have an idea which may account for the shortage: After the vessel is reported down river, the stevedores gather on the dock, and while waiting for us to arrive and commence discharging they whittle shingles to pass the time away. I give you this information for what it may be worth."

Mr. Skinner had the grace to see that he had been rebuked and left standing in a very poor light for one of his noted efficiency, so he did not pursue the subject further; but the next time Matt came to the office he jumped on him for carrying a dead-head passenger from San Pedro in the first cabin.

"Of course I carried him," Matt replied. "When I was before the mast in the Annabel Lee he was her skipper, so when I met him in Pedro minus his ticket and stony broke I gave him a lift to San Francisco. Mr. Ricks informed me that I would be permitted these little courtesies within the bounds of reason."

"When Captain Kjellin had the Quickstep," Mr. Skinner answered, "he never carried dead-heads."

"You mean he didn't have the courage to put the name on the passenger list and write D. H. after it. However, please do not compare me with Captain Kjellin."

"Well, you're not making the time he made in the Quickstep."

"I know it, sir. My policy is to make haste slowly. Kjellin hurried—and see what happened to him. He'll never be fast again, either, with that short leg of his."

"Captain Peasley, I am opposed to your levity."

"Do you want me to worry and stew just because you do not happen to like me and keep picking on me, Mr. Skinner? Why don't you be a sport and give me a fair chance, sir? You have all the best of it in any argument—so why argue?"

"No more dead-heads," Mr. Skinner warned. "Hereafter, pay for your guests."

With the coming on of winter, however, Matt's troubles with Mr. Skinner really commenced, although, in all justice to Skinner, the general manager was merely following out his theory of efficiency, and in respect to the matter upon which he deviled Matt Peasley most he did not differ vastly from many managing owners of steam schooners on the Pacific Coast. The trouble lay in the fact that the Quickstep carried passengers. While she was a cargo boat, and hence had no regular run or sailing schedule, her cabin accommodations were really very good and her steward's department excelled that of the regular passenger boats. By cutting the regular passenger rates from twenty-five to forty per cent. and advertising the vessel to sail at a certain hour on a certain date from a certain pier, free-lance ticket brokers found no difficulty in getting her a fair complement of passengers each trip. There was a moderate profit in this passenger traffic, and Mr. Skinner was anxious to increase it.

The difficulty surrounding the passenger business in the steam-schooner trade, however, lies in the uncertainty of a vessel's arrival and departure. It is all guesswork. Thus Matt Peasley, with his cargo half discharged at San Pedro, would estimate that he would sail from that port, northbound via San Francisco to some Oregon or Washington port for another cargo, at noon on the following day. Accordingly, he would wire his owners, who would immediately advertise the sailing of the vessel from San Francisco forty hours later, the Quickstep's average running time between San Pedro and San Francisco being about thirty-eight hours. If the master's estimate proved correct and there were no strong head winds to retard the vessel, she would sail within an hour or two of the advertised time, whereas a delay of six to eight hours in the arrival of the vessel at San Francisco might mean the loss of all the passenger business garnered for that trip; for competition was keen, and the ticket agents, selling on a commission of one dollar per ticket, would switch the traffic to some other vessel sailing earlier rather than have the tickets canceled and thus lose the commission.

When through delay or miscalculation the vessel lost passenger traffic out of a port other than San Francisco, Mr. Skinner did not feel discouraged. To lose passengers out of San Francisco, where the home office of the Blue Star Navigation Company was located, however, savored of a reflection on his efficiency, and caused him much bitter anguish. Consequently, when Matt Peasley, with a full passenger list from Eureka to San Francisco, wired Mr. Skinner that he would leave his loading port at two P. M. on Wednesday, Mr. Skinner allowed him twenty-two hours for landing his passengers from Eureka to San Francisco and taking on another load for San Pedro, whither the Quickstep was bound on that voyage. As a result the Quickstep was advertised to sail from San Francisco on Thursday at two P. M., and the agents were notified to commence selling tickets. Judge of Mr. Skinner's perturbation, therefore, when he received the following wireless from Matt Peasley at five o'clock on Wednesday:

Bar breaking heavily. At anchor inside. Will cross out as soon as I judge it safe to do so.

Three hours' delay, already, with the prospects exceedingly bright for the Quickstep's lurking inside Humboldt Bar all night! Mr. Skinner saw his passenger traffic gone to glory for that trip, so he sent a reply to Matt Peasley by wireless, as follows:

You are advertised to sail from here for San Pedro at two o'clock to-morrow. Hope you will permit nothing to militate against the preservation of that schedule. Answer.

"That's what comes of having an inexperienced man in the vessel," he complained to the cashier. "That fellow Peasley sees a few white caps on the bar, and he's afraid to cross out. Damn! Kjellin had her three years and never hung behind a bar once. Many a time he's come down to Humboldt Bar and found half a dozen steam schooners at anchor inside, waiting for a chance to duck out. Did Kjellin drop anchor too? He did not. Out he went and bucked right through it."

Mr. Skinner waited at the office until six o'clock to get Matt Peasley's answer. He got it—between the eyes:

I have no jurisdiction over Humboldt Bar.

The Quickstep crossed out next morning, and Mr. Skinner wirelessed her master this message:

Your timidity has spoiled San Pedro passenger business. Drop Eureka passengers at Meiggs Wharf and continue your voyage.

Now it does not please any mariner to be told that he is timid, and, while Matt Peasley made no reply, nevertheless, he chalked up a black mark against Mr. Skinner and commenced to plan against the day of reckoning.

That was an unusually severe winter. Four times Matt Peasley came down to the entrance to Humboldt Bar and came to anchor. Three times he tried to cross out and was forced to change his mind; seven times did Mr. Skinner upbraid him. The eighth time that Matt Peasley's caution knocked the San Francisco passenger traffic into a deficit, Mr. Skinner sent him this message where the Quickstep lay behind Coos Bay Bar:

What is the matter with you? Your predecessor always managed to negotiate that bar, and this company expects same of you.

"He's bound to run me out of this ship," Matt soliloquized when he read that terse aerogram, "but I promised Cappy I'd stick six months and I'll do it. That penny-pinching Skinner wants me to cut corners and get myself into trouble so he can fire me. I'll not tell him the things I want to tell him, so I guess I won't say anything—much."

He didn't. He just wired Mr. Skinner as follows:

Any time you want to commit suicide I will furnish a pistol.

About the beginning of March Mr. Skinner opened his cold heart long enough to let in a little human love and get married, and shortly thereafter he found it necessary to make a business trip to the redwood mill of the Ricks Lumber and Logging Company on Humboldt Bay. He went up on the regular P. C. passenger boat and took his bride with him, and while he was at the mill Matt Peasley came nosing in with the Quickstep and loaded a cargo of redwood lumber. He finished loading on the same day that Mr. Skinner discovered he had no further excuse for remaining away from the office, in consequence of which the latter decided to return to San Francisco on the Quickstep. This for several very good reasons: The food on the Quickstep was better than the food on the regular liner, the accommodations were fully as good, the vessel was loaded deeply and would ride steadily—and Mr. Skinner and his bride would travel without charge.

The sight of the Skinners coming aboard was not a pleasing one to Matt Peasley. He did not like Mr. Skinner well enough to care to eat at the same table with him, and he bethought him now of all the mean, nagging complaints of the past six months. In particular he recalled Mr. Skinner's instructions to him anent the carrying of dead-head passengers—and suddenly he had a brilliant idea. He sent for his wireless operator and ordered him to send this message:

Blue Star Navigation Company, San Francisco, Cal.

Please accept my resignation as master of your steamer Quickstep, said resignation to take effect immediately upon my arrival in San Francisco. Kindly have somebody on hand to relieve me.

Matthew Peasley.

Matt had just remembered that his six months in the Quickstep were up. His next move was to call on the steward.

"Go into Stateroom 7," he ordered, "and collect fifteen dollars from that man and woman in there. They came aboard without tickets."

Two minutes later the steward was back with word that the passengers in question were dead-heads, being none other than the manager of the Blue Star Navigation Company and his wife.

"Steward, you go back and tell that man Skinner that Captain Peasley never carries any dead-heads on the Quickstep. Tell him that when Captain Peasley wants to carry a guest he pays the guest's passage out of his own pocket."

"But he'll fire me, sir."

"Do as I order; he will not fire you. I'm the only man that has that privilege, and I'll exercise it if you don't obey me."

Two more minutes elapsed; then Mr. Skinner presented himself at the captain's stateroom.

"Peasley," he said sharply, "what nonsense is this?"

"No dead-heads on this ship, Mr. Skinner. Your own orders, sir. Fifteen dollars, if you please. You're not my guests."

"Of course," said Mr. Skinner, "I shall do nothing of the sort."

"Then get off the ship."

"Sir, are you crazy?"

"No, I am not; I'm just disgusted with you. Fifteen dollars here and now before I cast off the lines, or I'll run you off the ship. Don't tempt me, Skinner. If I ever lay violent hands on you there'll be work for a doctor."

Mr. Skinner was speechless, but he laid fifteen dollars on the captain's desk and returned to his stateroom. His silence was ominous. Five minutes later the Quickstep backed out from the mill wharf and headed down the bay. As she plowed along, the rain commenced falling and a stiff southeast breeze warned Matt that he was in for a wet crossing. He was further convinced of this when the bar tug Ranger met him a mile inside the entrance. She steamed alongside, and, as she passed, her captain hailed Matt.

"Don't try to cross out, Peasley," he shouted. "The bar is breaking."

"The Quickstep doesn't mind it," Matt answered.

"Don't try it, I tell you. I've been twenty years on Humboldt Bar and I know it, Peasley. I've never seen it so bad as it is this minute."

"Oh, we'll cross out without any fuss," Matt called back cheerfully, and rang for full speed ahead. They were down at the entrance, and the Quickstep had just lifted to the dead water from the first big green roller, when Mr. Skinner came up and touched Matt Peasley on the arm.

"Well, sir?" Matt demanded irritably.

"Drop anchor inside, captain. That bar is too rough to attempt to cross out."

"Oh, nonsense!" Matt declared.

"But didn't you hear what that tug-boat captain said? He said it was breaking worse than he had known it for twenty years."

"Bah! What does he know about it?"

"I don't care what he knows, Captain Peasley; I order you not to attempt to cross out. My wife is aboard and I'll take no chances. Come to anchor and wait for the bar to settle."

"You order me?" Matt sneered. "Who in blazes are you to give orders on my ship? I'm at sea, you understand, and you have nothing to say. You'll give your orders and I'll obey them when I'm at the dock, but crossing Humboldt Bar, I'm the master of ceremonies. I can't turn back now. I'd lose my rudder as I came about. Get out. Who invited you up here?"

"How dare you, sir?" Mr. Skinner cried furiously. "Man, have you lost your mind? Obey me, I say."

Matt Peasley laughed blithely. "You miserable, cold-blooded, nagging old woman," he said, and took Mr. Skinner by the nape and shook him. "I've prayed for this day. Do you remember the time you wired me at Coos Bay that my timidity had lost you some passenger traffic? You impugned my courage then, you whelp, and now I'm going to give you a sample of it. All winter long you've been hounding me, trying to make me take chances crossing this bar, just so the vessel might pick up a couple of hundred dollars extra in passenger money. It didn't matter to you what risks other men's wives ran when you were snug in your office, did it? You never thought of the passengers I had aboard, or the lives of my crew or me, did you? You wanted me to cut corners and risk human lives for the sake of your reputation as an efficient manager, you—" And he shook Mr. Skinner until the manager's teeth rattled. "Now you're aboard yourself with your blushing bride, and how do you like it, eh? How do you like it? You know all about navigation, don't you? Well, you and your wife are the only passengers this trip, and I'm going to give you a taste of salt water you'll remember till your dying day," and with a shove he sent Mr. Skinner flying aft until he collided with the funnel.

"You're fired!" Skinner screamed, beside himself with fear and rage. But Matt Peasley was devoting all of his attention to the Quickstep now; and it was well that he did. The vessel rose on the crest of a green comber thirty feet high, and plunged with the speed of an express elevator into the valley between that wave and the next.

A tremendous sea boiled in over the knight heads and swept aft, burying the Quickstep until nothing showed but her upper works. But she was a sturdy craft and came up from under it, rode the succeeding three seas and was comparatively free of water when she shipped the next one. The crest of it came in along the little promenade deck, carrying away the companion that led to the bridge, staving in the doors and windows of all the staterooms on the port side and carrying away the rails and stanchions. There was two feet of water in Stateroom 7, where Mrs. Skinner clung to her husband, screaming hysterically.

But despite the awful buffeting she was receiving the Quickstep never faltered. On she plowed, riding the green billows like a gull, and shipping a sea only occasionally. The deckload, double-lashed, held, although the deckhouse groaned and twisted until Matt Peasley regretted the impulse that had impelled him to do this foolish thing for the sake of satisfying a grudge.

"She'll make it, sir," the man at the wheel called up; but Matt's face was a little white and serious as he tried to smile back.

Another sea came ramping aboard and snatched the port lifeboat out of the davits, smashed in the door of the dining saloon and flooded it, gutted the galley, and drove the cook and the steward to the protection of the engine room. The chief called up through the speaking tube:

"How's the boss making it, captain?"

"It's a wet passage for him, chief. I can hear his wife scream every time we ship one."

"Serves her right for marrying the pest," the chief growled, and turned away.

They crossed out, but at a cost that made Matt Peasley shudder, when he left the bridge in charge of the mate and went below to take stock of the damage. A new boat and four days' work for a carpenter gang—perhaps eighteen hundred dollars' worth of damage, not counting the demurrage! It was a big price to pay for one brief moment of triumph, but Matt Peasley felt that it would have been cheap at twice the money. He passed round on the starboard side of the vessel and found Mr. Skinner wet to the skin and shivering.

"We're over," Matt announced cheerfully. "How did you like the going?"

"You villain!" Skinner cried passionately. "You'll never command another ship in the Blue Star fleet, I'll promise you that."

"I know it, Skinner. But if I were you I'd go down in the engine room and dry out while the cook and the steward straighten things round."

"I'll discharge you the moment we tie up at the dock in San Francisco," Skinner stormed.

"Oh, no, you won't," Matt assured him. "I've beaten you to it. I resigned by wireless before we left the dock at Eureka."

That was a long, cold, cheerless trip for the Skinner family. The Quickstep bucked a howling southeaster all the way down the coast, and the Skinners were knocked from one end of their wet stateroom to the other and slept not a wink. It was a frightful experience, and to add to the discomfort of the trip Mrs. Skinner wept all the way. Eventually, however, the Quickstep tied up at the wharf in San Francisco, and the minute she was fast Matt Peasley, his accounts all made up to date and his clothes and personal effects packed, sprang out on the dock.

"There's your ship, Skinner," he called to the general manager. "I'm through." And he hastened away to the Blue Star office to settle up with the cashier, while Mr. Skinner and his bride entered a taxicab and were driven to their home. And two hours later when Mr. Skinner, warm and dry at last, came down to the office to attend to the task of selecting a new master for the Quickstep, he found Cappy Ricks was back from Europe and on the job.

"I hear you've been having some experience," said Cappy cheerfully as he shook hands with his manager. "Peasley was telling me what he did to you, and all the disrespectful things he said to you. Skinner, my dear fellow, that was an outrageous way for him to act."

"I fired him," said Skinner waspishly. "And while we're on the subject let me declare myself about this man Peasley; as long as I remain in your employ, Mr. Ricks, that man must never command another Blue Star vessel. Do I make myself sufficiently clear?"

"You do, Skinner; you do, indeed," Cappy answered. "I warned Matt that if you ever fired him, I'd have to back you up—and I'll do it, Skinner. I'll sustain your decision, my boy. As long as you're my manager that fellow can never go to sea under the Blue Star flag. The scoundrel!"

"And I wouldn't recommend him to any other owner either," Mr. Skinner suggested.

"I'll not, Skinner. He will never go to sea again. I'm not going to have his license taken away from him—er— Hum! Ahem! Harump-h-h-h! But I'll see that he doesn't use it again. The fact is, Skinner, I'm er—getting—old—and—er—you're pretty hard-worked in the lumber department, so I've—Hum! Harump-h-h-h! decided to relieve you of the shipping entirely and hire Matt for our port captain. He's on the pay roll at three hundred a month. And—er—Skinner, try to be friendly with the boy for my sake. The young rascal is engaged to marry my daughter, and I—er—it's barely possible he'll take up the business—Hum! Ahem! I'll stick round another year and break him into the landward side of shipping and then, Skinner, d'ye know what I'm going to do then?"

"What?" Mr. Skinner asked dully.

"I'm going to learn to play golf," said Cappy.



CHAPTER XXXII. SKINNER PROPOSES—AND CAPPY RICKS DISPOSES

Having, as he thought, evaded the spirit of Mr. Skinner's ultimatum while conforming to its literal terms, Cappy Ricks hurried home leaving his general manager a stunned and horrified man. In this instance, however, Cappy had erred in his strategy. Skinner was calm, cold-blooded, suave, politic and deferential, but in his kind of fight he never bluffed. He never played his hand until he had sufficient trumps to take the odd trick.

He looked ahead now, into the not very distant future, and saw Matt Peasley, husband of the heiress to the Ricks millions, giving him orders—and the vision did not sit well on the general manager's stomach. Consequently, Mr. Skinner decided for a test of strength at once.

Accordingly, when Cappy Ricks came down to the office the following morning, Mr. Skinner came into the old fellow's sanctum and requested an interview.

"Fire away, my boy," said Cappy amiably, yet with a queer sinking feeling in his vitals, for he did not like the look in Skinner's eye; and something told him there was blood on the moon.

"With reference to this rowdy, Peasley, whom you tell me you are going to make port captain—"

"I also told you, Skinner, my boy, that he is to be my son-in-law," Cappy interrupted, like a good general bringing up his heavy artillery prior to ordering a charge. "I beg of you, Skinner, whatever your animosities, to bear in mind the fact that my daughter could not possibly engage herself to a rowdy."

"Out of respect to you and Miss Florence I shall not indulge in personalities, sir," Mr. Skinner replied smilingly, and Cappy shuddered, for Mr. Skinner never smiled in a fight unless he had the situation well in hand. "I have merely called to tell you that I have invested seventy-five cents of my salary in a stout hickory pick-handle, and the next time Captain Matt Peasley enters my office I shall test the quality of the said pick-handle over his head. I don't care if he is engaged to your daughter; the minute you bring that man into this office I go out. You shall have my resignation instantly. That decision, Mr. Ricks, is final and irrevocable." And without giving Cappy an instant for argument Mr. Skinner bowed himself out.

A month and Cappy Ricks remained minus his port captain; Mr. Skinner was still strongly entrenched in his job as general manager. It was a hard hand to beat, for the fact of the matter was that Cappy Ricks simply could not afford to dispense with Mr. Skinner. The man was too honest, too conscientious, too industrious, too brilliant, too efficient, not to be reckoned with. To part with Skinner was like parting with a dividend-producing gold mine; it was equivalent to unloading on Cappy's shoulders again the burden of work and worry that would have killed him ten years ago had he not surrendered it to Skinner, who handled it as a juggler handles nine balls. Moreover, Skinner knew all of the business secrets of the Ricks Lumber and Logging Company and the Blue Star Navigation Company—why, he was an integral part of the business; and, lastly, Cappy was fond of the man.

Skinner had come to him as office boy at the tender age of ten—and that was twenty-five years before. A daily association for twenty-five years would make a human being like Cappy fond of the devil himself; and, barring the fact that he was cold-blooded, Skinner was a fairly likeable chap, and devoted, body and soul to Cappy Ricks. The longer Cappy pondered the thought of asserting his authority as boss and defying Skinner, the more impossible the alternative became. Also the longer he thought of having Matt Peasley kept out of the business by Skinner, the higher rose his gorge, for Cappy had yearned for a son like Matt Peasley and been denied. Now when he had planned successfully to do the next best thing and have Matt for a son-in-law, to be blocked by Skinner was unbearable. All Cappy could do was to search vainly for an "out," and in the interim, whenever he met Matt Peasley at his home, he carefully avoided all reference to Matt's future in the Blue Star employ for which, by the way, Matt was eternally grateful. He did not care to talk business with Cappy for a month as yet. He was too happy with Cappy's daughter.

Another month passed. Cappy grew thin and lost his relish for his food. Then Florence, being a woman, began to see, looming out of the rose-tinted mist of her happy dreams, a huge interrogation mark.

She wondered what her father intended doing for her future husband; and since she was accustomed to bossing her parent she spoke to Cappy about it, thereby increasing his mental agony.

About the same time Matt Peasley commenced to wonder also, but forbore to mention the subject to Cappy. Instead, he went down to the Red Stack people and got himself a job skippering a tug; and great was his joy thereat, for the wages were fully as good as he had enjoyed on the Quickstep, and he was enabled to spend nearly every night in port. The two months of idleness, albeit the happiest he had ever known, had commenced to pall on him, and he wanted to be up and doing once more. Also, being a man, he sensed something of the embarrassment of Cappy's position, and, manlike, decided to relieve the old fellow of that embarrassment. Matt concluded that he would retain his job as master of the tug Sea Fox for a few months—say six—and then ask Cappy Ricks for twenty thousand dollars, which amount would by that time be to his credit on the Blue Star books by reason of his half-interest in the seventy-five-dollar-a-day profit he and Cappy had annexed when rechartering the steamer Unicorn. With that amount of money in hand, plus the savings from his salary, he planned to marry Cappy's daughter and go into business for himself as a ship, freight and marine insurance broker.

Mr. Skinner heard of Matt Peasley's appointment as master of the tug Sea Fox several hours before the same information reached Matt himself. The general manager of the tugboat company, scanning Matt's application and having a vacancy to fill, called up Mr. Skinner.

"Say, Skinner," he said, "I have an application for a job as master for one of our tugs from Captain Matthew Peasley. He tells me he was a couple of years under the Blue Star flag, from A. B. to master of steam and sail, with an unlimited license. Is he a good man?"

"We never had a more capable skipper in our employ," said Mr. Skinner truthfully.

"Why did you let him go then?"

"He resigned."

"Under fire?"

"No, he quit voluntarily."

"Honest?"

"Very."

"Then what's wrong with him?"

"He doesn't like me. But he's capable and fearless and a devil on wheels. He'll take a ship anywhere and bring her out again whole."

"Then he's my huckleberry. That's the kind of man for a tugboat skipper," was the reply, and Matt Peasley had the job, greatly to the joy of Mr. Skinner, who realized now that his ultimatum to Cappy Ricks had been a knockout blow. Cappy had surrendered, and the rowdy Matt, having given up hope of a snug berth as port captain of the Blue Star Navigation Company, had in despair sought a job with a tugboat company.

Mr. Skinner was so happy he shelved his office dignity long enough to whistle a popular ballad that had been running through his mind of late. All too gladly had he recommended Matt Peasley for that tugboat job! He would have employed anything, short of dishonorable methods, to rid the Blue Star of that incubus!

Cappy Ricks almost wept with rage when his daughter informed him that Matt had gone back to salt water. She was a little indignant over it, and demanded a show-down from her unhappy father, who looked at her miserably and said he'd think it over.

He did. Every afternoon, upon his return from luncheon he slid down on his spine in his upholstered swivel chair, draped his old shanks over his desk, dropped his chin on his breast, closed his eyes and went into a clinch with the awful problem, with all its dips, spurs and angles. Save for the nervous clasping and unclasping of his hands one would have thought him sound asleep.

For a month no gleam of light filtered through the deep gloom of the old gentleman's predicament. A dozen times had he reached forth to press the push-button on his desk, summon Skinner and force the latter to do one of two things; recede from his position or resign as general manager. Ten times he had paused with his finger on the push-button. He simply could NOT afford to dispense with Skinner! The eleventh time, however, grown desperate from much brooding over his unhappy lot, Cappy pressed the button.

"Send Mr. Skinner in," he commanded bravely to the boy who answered his summons.

Mr. Skinner entered and stood awaiting Cappy's pleasure. On the instant the old fellow was overcome by panic. Frantically he sought an "out."

"Skinner, my dear boy," he purred, "has it occurred to you that young Tommy, the office boy, has been here long enough, and behaved himself well enough, to merit a raise of about ten dollars a month?"

Mr. Skinner was a natural conservative and considerable of a pessimist.

"Well, I daresay he has, although I hadn't given the matter any thought, sir. However, the way lumber has been selling the past few months, we ought to be cutting salaries instead of raising them."

"I know, Skinner, I know. But a boy needs some encouragement; he has to have some concrete evidence of appreciation, er—er—attend to it, Skinner, my boy, attend to it."

Mr. Skinner nodded and retired, leaving Cappy to grit his teeth and curse himself for a poltroon. "It's certainly hell when a man of my age and financial rating stands between his love and duty," he mourned. "Darn that fellow Skinner. If my bluff should fail to work and he got on his high horse and quit, I'd have to climb off my high horse and beg him to return to work. And he knows it. He knows I've been taking it easy so long I never could bring myself to take up the burden of active business again. Money! What does money mean if it can't buy happiness? Drat that devilish Skinner. I wish to jiminy he had the burden of my dollars—"

He paused, overcome by a sudden brilliant thought. "Bully for you, Alden P., you old, three-ply, copper-riveted, reinforced, star-spangled jack-ass!" he murmured. "Why didn't you think of it before and save yourself all this grief?"

His hand shot out once more to the push-button. "Send in Mr. Hankins, sonny," he ordered the office boy.

Mr. Hankins was the cashier; also secretary of all of Cappy's companies, of which Mr. Skinner was first vice president. He entered and stood deferentially beside Cappy's desk.

"Hankins, my dear boy, bring me the stock certificates for my holdings in the Ricks Lumber and Logging Company and the Blue Star Navigation Company. I am going to indorse them, after which I wish you would reissue the stock to me, less one hundred shares of each in the name of Mr. Skinner. Say nothing to Mr. Skinner about this and bring the new certificates to me immediately."

When Hankins had complied with his request Cappy Ricks placed the Skinner certificates in his pocket and went uptown to the office of his attorney. He returned to his office within an hour and immediately sent for Mr. Skinner.

"Skinner, my dear boy," began Cappy affably, "sit down. I want to have a very serious talk with you."

"Nothing wrong, I trust," Skinner began apprehensively, for Cappy's air was very portentous.

"If there was," Cappy snapped, "you wouldn't be here to-day. Some other fellow would be holding down your job, and, I dare say, giving poor satisfaction—by the way, my dear Skinner, something which you have never done."

Mr. Skinner flushed pleasurably and thanked his employer.

"Some twenty-five years ago," Cappy continued, "you entered my employ as a spindle-legged office boy. To-day you are my general manager, and a rattling good one, too, even if we do have our little run-in together every so often. We mustn't pay any attention to that, however, for a fight is good for a man, Skinner. I maintain that it brings out all of his virtues and vices where one can have an unobstructed view of them. However, passing that, I decided a long time ago, Skinner, that you are entitled to more than a mere salary—"

"My salary has been eminently satisfactory, sir—" Mr. Skinner began.

"Don't be an ass, Skinner," Cappy interrupted tartly. "I wouldn't give two hoots in hell for a satisfied man, unless he's his own man—understand. You should have a more vital interest in the Ricks Lumber and Logging Company and the Blue Star Navigation Company. We always make our skippers own a piece of the vessels they command, so they will not be tempted to rob us, for in robbing us they rob themselves. Consequently, thinking it over, Skinner, I have decided to make you own a piece of both the companies you manage, not because you may rob them but because I want to reward you for faithful service. I had planned to do this in my will, but I feel so healthy lately I think I'll live a long time yet, and there isn't any real sense in keeping you waiting. What is the book valuation of the Ricks L. & L. stock?"

"Three hundred eighty-seven thirteen, according to the last annual report," replied Skinner glibly. His eyes glistened.

"And the Blue Star stock?"

"Four hundred thirty-two twenty-seven."

"Hump! Harump-h-h! It will be worth more when the Panama Canal is opened. We'll have a crack at the Atlantic Seaboard market with our Pacific Coast lumber, and the water freight will knock the rail rate silly. Besides, I'm going to buy up a couple of large freighters, or build them, and that stock of yours will pay dividends then. I'll soak you four hundred per share for the Blue Star stock. Is that satisfactory?"

Nobody knew better than Mr. Skinner the fact that the Blue Star stock at the book valuation was appraised very conservatively. He nodded.

"Lumber market's up and down, down and up, and we never know where we stand. Give you that at two-fifty a share. Want it?"

"I should say I do!" Skinner gasped.

"Then you owe me sixty-five thousand dollars. I'll take your promissory note for it at five per cent., and you can pay the note out of your salary and the dividends. You'll be in the clear in ten years at the very latest; the stock I'm selling you now will be worth a hundred thousand—with your management. Here's the contract, which embodies a promissory note. Sign it, endorse the stock to me to secure the payment of the note, and then clear out of here. Not a peep out of you, sir, not a peep. If you say 'Thank you' I'll change my mind about selling."

Mr. Skinner's hand trembled a little as he wrote his name across the backs of the stock certificates and appended the same clear, concise signature to the note. Silently he wrung Cappy's hand.

"Get out," rasped Cappy. Mr. Skinner got out.



CHAPTER XXXIII. CAPPY'S PLANS DEMOLISHED

Four more months passed, and peace reigned in the offices of the Blue Star Navigation Company. Matt Peasley's name had never been mentioned in Mr. Skinner's presence since that dark day when he had ventured, for the first time in his career, to lay down the law to Cappy Ricks. The pick-handle still reposed behind Skinner's desk, but that was merely because he had forgotten all about it, and nobody ever touched any of his property without his permission. Not once had Matt Peasley's cheerful countenance darkened the Skinner horizon.

This, then, was the condition of affairs when the office boy carried to Mr. Skinner a piece of disquieting information—to wit, that Captain Matt Peasley was without and desired to hold speech with Mr. Ricks.

"Tell him Mr. Ricks is too busy to see him," Skinner ordered. Not having heard anything of Matt for six months he concluded that the latter's affair with the boss' daughter had languished and died a natural death; hence he felt that he could defy Matt with impunity. Judge of his surprise, therefore, when a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder later and Matt Peasley stood glaring down at him.

"Well, sir!" said Skinner coolly.

"I heard you had a pick-handle waiting here for me," Matt replied evenly, "so I just dropped in to tell you that if you ever pull a pick-handle on me I'll take it away from you and ram it down your throat. That's all I have to say to you, Mr. Skinner. If, the next time I call, at Mr. Ricks' invitation, to see him, you intercept my message and try to block my game—"

The great Peasley hand closed over Mr. Skinner's neck and felt of it tentatively.

"Ouch!" gasped Mr. Skinner.

"Admit the brother," Matt called to an imaginary sentry behind Cappy's door. "He has given the password. The lodge has been duly opened and we are now ready for business."

He smiled at Mr. Skinner and passed on into Cappy Ricks' office.

"Well, Matt," the latter hailed him pleasantly, "it's been a long time since I've seen you in this office."

"And it'll be a long time till you see me here again, sir," Matt retorted pleasantly. "I was about to call on you when your message reached me. So suppose you tell me your business first. Then I'll tell you mine."

"No, you won't, Matt," Cappy challenged him, "because hereafter you're not going to have any business unless I have a finger in it too. Matt, my son, do you recall the day you quit the Quickstep?"

"With pleasure," Matt assured him whimsically.

"You're vindictive; but no matter. Skinner declared you should never again command a Blue Star ship while he was in my employ, and I said, by George, that was right—you shouldn't. I said I was going to make you our port captain, and eventually place you in charge of the shipping after I had broken you in."

"I have a curiosity, sir, to know why you didn't go through with that program."

"Skinner wouldn't let me—said he'd quit if I did, and I just couldn't afford to lose him, Matt. However, I have all that fixed up now, so you quit that tugboat job of yours and come to work here as soon as you can. I could have put you to work three months ago, right after I sewed Skinner up, but I thought I'd wait a little while just to save poor Skinner's face." Cappy commenced to chuckle softly. "In-fer-nal rascal!" he declared. "He had me where the hair is short, Matt; he had me where I dassen't defy my own general manager! Yes, sir, that was the long and short of it. I dassen't call his bluff, because he doesn't bluff worth a cent, and I happen to know some of my competitors would like to get him away from me. A good man is always in demand, Matt; never forget that. You see, Skinner has been carrying the burden of this business for the past ten years practically, and he threatened to toss that burden back on me. Well, if he had, Matt, I just couldn't have carried it without competent help—and by the time I had competent help broken in they'd be measuring me for a tombstone."

"How did you whip him into line?" Matt demanded.

"Just like spearing fish in a dry lake, boy," Cappy chuckled. "I just sold Mr. Skinner part of that burden, and now he has to carry it all until he dies, because if he drops it he loses what I sold him. Only one way to whip that boy into line, Matt, and that is to pelt him with dollars."

"But I do not see how that affects me," Matt answered.

"You don't, eh? Why, you're the port captain of the Blue Star Navigation Company, you-you-you bonehead, and Skinner has to stand for you now whether he likes it or not. He'll not sacrifice his future to vent his grudge against you, because he is a business man, Matt, and he knows it's mighty poor business to bite off his nose to spite his face. So you just come to work."

Matt Peasley beamed across at his future father-in-law.

"That was well done, sir," he said, "and I wish I had known you were going to do it. I would have saved you the trouble, because, you see, I never intended to go to work for you in this office anyhow."

"The devil you say!" Cappy interrupted. "Well, you just put some reverse English on those intentions of yours, my boy. I know what's good for you."

But Matt Peasley only shook his head.

"I can't do it, sir," he said. "While deeply appreciative of all you want to do for me, the fact is, if I'm going to marry your daughter—and I am—I'm not going to do it on your money and be dependent upon you for a job. I'll be my own man, Mr. Ricks. I never ask odds of any man, and I don't like to work for a relative."

"Damn your Yankee independence," snapped Cappy angrily. "Why do you oppose me?"

"Because I'll not have anybody saying: 'There goes Matt Peasley. He fell into a good thing. Yes, indeed! Used to be a common A. B. until Alden P. Ricks' daughter fell in love with him—and of course after that he went right up the line in the Blue Star Navigation Company. He's a lucky stiff.'"

"What do you care what people say? I know what I want."

"I do care what they say, and I care what I feel. I want to fight my own way. I want to make a wad of money and build up a business of my own—"

"You're crazy! Why, here's one ready-made, and it will stand all kinds of building up—"

"Then let Skinner build it. I'll build my own. I do not want anybody to think I married your daughter for your money."

"Matt, you poor, chuckleheaded boy, listen to me. I intend doing for you—"

"And that," roared Matt Peasley, smiting the desk, "is the very reason why I shall not permit you to do anything for me. That's final, Mr. Ricks. I hope you will realize it's useless to argue with me."

"I ought to by this time," Cappy replied bitterly. "Very well, I've told you my business with you. Suppose you state your business with me."

"I'd like to draw twenty thousand dollars from my credit on the Blue Star books."

"Huh! So you want to dig into that money the recharter of the Unicorn is bringing you, eh, Matt?"

"If you can spare it, Mr. Ricks."

"Of course I can spare it—only I'll not. If you want that money, Matt, sue for it; and since you haven't any documents to prove you have it coming to you, I suppose you will agree with me that a suit would be useless expenditure of time, money and energy."

"Then you will not give me the money, sir?" Matt Peasley demanded.

"Not a red," said Cappy calmly. "We've fought this whole matter out before, so why argue?"

"Why, indeed," Matt answered, and reached for his hat. He was fighting mad and desired to go away before he quarreled with Cappy.

"I'll go downstairs to the cigar stand and shake you the dice, one flop, to see whether you go into business for yourself or come to work for me," Cappy pleaded.

Matt came to him and placed his great hands on the old man's shoulders.

"You're the finest man I ever knew, Mr. Ricks," he said, "and you're the meanest man I ever knew, so I'll not shake dice with you. You're too fond of having your own way—"

"Yes, and you're the same, blast you!" Cappy shrilled, losing his temper entirely. "Wait till you're my age. There won't be any standing you at all. Get out!"



CHAPTER XXXIV. A GIFT FROM THE GODS

The barkentine Retriever, lumber laden from Astoria to San Francisco, lay under the lee of Point Reyes in a dead calm. It was a beautiful, moonlit night, with the sea as smooth as a fishpond, and Captain Michael J. Murphy, albeit a trifle surprised at his proximity to the California coast—the result of three days and nights of thick fog, which had suddenly lifted—was not particularly worried. At eight o'clock he turned in, after warning the mate to call him in case the Retriever should drift inshore.

"Never fear, sir," the mate replied. "We'll have a puff of wind about daylight at the latest, and the current sets north and south here rather than toward the beach."

For two hours after Captain Murphy had retired the Retriever rose and fell gently on the slightest swell, her booms and yards swinging idly amidships, her sails and cordage slatting listlessly as the vessel rolled.

Suddenly the lookout shouted: "Steamer on the port bow!" and the mate, following the direction indicated, made out the red and green sidelights and the single white light at the short masthead of the approaching vessel.

"Tug," he announced to the man at the wheel. "Good enough! The lookout at Point Reyes reported us, and the owners have sent a tug out to snake us in."

The mate's prognostication was correct in some particulars, for in about half an hour the tug steamed slowly alongside the Retriever and hailed her.

"Barkentine, ahoy!"

"Ahoy! Retriever, of the Blue Star, Astoria for San Francisco."

"Sea Fox, of the Red Stack Line. Is Captain Murphy on deck?"

"No, but I'll send for him," the mate shouted, and forthwith sent a man below to rout out the skipper. When Murphy came on deck and hailed the tug he nearly fainted at the information that came floating across the water.

"Murphy, this is Matt Peasley speaking."

"Not Matt Peasley that used to command this old box—"

"Don't speak disrespectfully of my first command, Mike—"

"And you're only a tug captain—a dirty, thieving, piratical towboat man, holding up every honest skipper that pokes his nose into San Francisco Bay. Matt, I'm ashamed of you. How are you anyhow?"

"Fine, Mike. Want a tow?"

"I don't need one; I'll have a bit of breeze before long. I'm independent of you!"

The tug crept in closer. "Don't be foolish, Mike; better let me slip you a line."

"How much will it cost, Matt? None of your highway robbery now. Be easy on the Retriever for old times' sake."

"A thousand dollars," Matt Peasley answered pleasantly, and was rewarded with a volley of oaths from Mike Murphy and his crew.

"You're a thief!" yelled Murphy.

"And you're a fool, Mike. You're not more than two miles off the breakers, you're in a calm that may last two days, and when the tide is at flood you'll set in on the beach as sure as death and taxes—and then I'll have a salvage job that will cost your owners not one thousand but ten."

"You go to the devil!" was Murphy's reply to this, and the Sea Fox dropped astern and came round on the starboard bow of the Retriever. In she backed, a foot at a time, and Captain Murphy, up on the topgallant fo'castle, was within easy conversational distance of Matt Peasley, standing on the grating at the stern of the Sea Fox.

"Better grab this heaving line, Mike," Matt suggested.

"Come aboard and have a drink, Matt, but leave your line behind you," Murphy answered hospitably.

The Sea Fox drifted down fifteen or twenty feet, swung slowly, headed out to sea, and then backed gingerly in until her stern was within a few feet of the side of the Retriever.

"Hey, you! What d'ye mean to do? Back into her?" yelled Matt Peasley to his mate. "Full speed ahead! Quick!"

A bell jangled in the bowels of the Sea Fox, her great screw churned the water and she shot out from the Retriever.

"That's right! Go clear over to China, and expect me to haggle with this man through the megaphone, eh?" Matt roared. "Back up again!"

"I tell you, Matt, there isn't the slightest use hanging round for us," Murphy warned the towboat skipper. "I wouldn't let the ship be held up by anybody, least of all a towboat man."

"Well, when the lookout on Point Reyes telephoned into our office that the Retriever was inside the Point, I made up my mind I'd come out and get her, and I don't purpose being disappointed," Matt replied jokingly. "I'll just wait until you drift into the breakers, and then you'll do business with me, never fear."

"G'wan!" snorted Murphy. "How's Cappy Ricks, the old villain?"

"He's fine, Mike. He wanted me to work for him, but I don't like his general manager—Mr. Olson, full speed ahead or you'll smash our stern against this barkentine. Steady! That's better. Astern a trifle. Steady! Mike, how've you been since I saw you last?"



CHAPTER XXXV. A DIRTY YANKEE TRICK

"Skinner," said Cappy Ricks, "I was called out of my bed at five o'clock this morning by the night operator at the Merchants' Exchange. He told me our Retriever was in the breakers just south of Point Reyes, but that a tug was standing by. What have you heard since?"

"She drifted in there in a calm last night, sir," Mr. Skinner replied. "Fortunately the Point Reyes lookout had reported her early yesterday evening, and one of the Red Stack tugs—the Sea Fox—took a chance and went out seeking. Lucky thing for us—"

"The tug hauled her off then?"

"Got a line aboard just in time. I had a telephone message from Captain Murphy at Meiggs Wharf ten minutes ago. The Retriever is anchored in the fairway."

"What tug did you say it was?" Cappy queried.

"The Sea Fox."

"That's Matt Peasley's command," Cappy mused. "Lucky? I should say we are! It's up to the master of the tug very frequently whether, under such conditions, his task has been a mere towage job at the going rates or a salvage proposition to be settled in court. I dare say Matt will give us the benefit of the doubt and call it towage."

"Don't deceive yourself!" Skinner snapped. "It's salvage; Murphy said so. After he got close in Peasley refused to name a price and came aboard and made Murphy sign a paper acknowledging that his ship was in distress and dire peril, before he would even put a line aboard him—"

"Wow! Wow! The tugboat company will libel the ship now, and sue us for fifty thousand dollars' salvage on vessel and cargo," and Cappy groaned, for he owned both. "By George!" he continued. "I didn't think Matt would do anything like that to me. No, sir! If anybody had told me that boy could be such an ingrate I'd have told him—"

A youth entered Cappy's office uninvited.

"Captain Peasley to see you, sir," he said.

"Show the infernal fellow in," rasped Cappy, and Matt Peasley stalked into the room.

"I should like to see you privately, Mr. Ricks," he announced, and cast a significant glance at Skinner, who took the hint and left the room at once.

Matt sat down. "Well," he said, "I guess the tug Sea Fox and owners, together with her doughty skipper and crew, will finger some of your hard-earned dollars before long, Mr. Ricks. I pulled your barkentine Retriever out of the breakers this morning. In fifteen minutes she would have been on the beach and a total loss—and I have a document, signed by Captain Murphy and his mates, to prove it. I offered the pig-headed fellow a tow at ten o'clock the night before, but he declined it—trying to save a few dollars, of course—so when I had him where he had to have my services—"

"Well!" Cappy snapped, "send your owners round and we'll try to settle out of court. If they're hogs we'll fight 'em, that's all."

"And if you do you'll get licked. We'll get a quarter of the value of that vessel and her cargo. She's easily worth fifty thousand dollars and her cargo is worth thirty thousand more—that's eighty thousand, and a quarter of eighty thousand dollars is twenty thousand."

"You'll have to fight for it, I tell you," Cappy reiterated.

"There is no necessity for a fight, Mr. Ricks. It all rests with me whether this is a salvage job or just a plain towing job at the customary rates."

Cappy looked at his ex-skipper keenly.

"Matt," he charged, "you've got a scheme. You want something."

"I do; I want to save you a lot of fuss and worry and expense. In return I want you to do something for me."

"I'll do it, Matt. What is the program?"

"Give me that twenty thousand dollars you justly owe me—twenty thousand dollars I have to my credit on your books, which you are withholding just because you have the power to withhold it."

"And in return—"

"I'll tear up the deadly document I extorted from Murphy and report a mere towage job to my owners."

Cappy pressed the push-button and a boy appeared.

"Tell Mr. Skinner I want to see him," he ordered, and an instant later Mr. Skinner entered. "Skinner," said Cappy, "draw a check for twenty thousand in favor of Matt Peasley, and charge it to his account."

"And then send it over to the bank and certify it," Matt added, "because before I get through with you, Mr. Ricks, you'll be tempted to stop payment on it, if I know you—and I think I do."

Half an hour later Cappy handed Matt Peasley, a certified check for twenty thousand dollars, and in exchange the latter handed Cappy the only proof the Red Stack people would have had, over and above the contradictory testimony of the crews of the respective vessels, that the services of their tug constituted salvage and not towage. Cappy read it, tore it into shreds and glared at Matt Peasley.

"Matt," he said very solemnly, "I'm glad this thing happened. I've always had a good opinion of you, but now I know that though you have many excellent qualities you do not possess that quality which above all others I require in an employee or a son-in-law.

"You aren't loyal. You had the sweetest case of salvage against our vessel that any man could go into court with, and you kicked it away like that, just for your own selfish ends. You sacrificed your shipmates, who would have been awarded a pro rata of the salvage, and you were false to the trust your owners reposed in you."

Cappy stood up, his face pale with fury, and shook an admonitory finger under Matt Peasley's nose.

"That act, sir, is an index of your true character," he thundered. "A master who will deceive his owners, who will be false to their interests, is a scoundrel, sir; do you hear me?—a scoundrel. You will oblige me, sir, by refraining from any attentions to my daughter in the future. To think that you have descended to such a petty, miserable subterfuge to trick me and rob your owners! Thank God, I have found you out in time!"

"Yes, isn't it fortunate?" Matt answered humorously. "And if you get any angrier you'll bust an artery and die."

"Out of my office!" Cappy raved; for though he was a business man, and never hesitated to do business in a businesslike way, he was the soul of business honor, and in all his life he had never taken a mean or unfair advantage of those who trusted him. The knowledge that Matt Peasley had done such a thing filled him with rage not unmixed with sorrow.

"I'll be gone in a minute," Matt replied gently; "only before I go permit me to tell you something, and on my honor as a man and a sailor I assure you I speak the truth. That wasn't a salvage job at all."

"What?"

Matt repeated the statement. Cappy blinked and clawed at his whiskers.

"Oh," he said presently, "I had forgotten that you and Captain Murphy were once shipmates. And so that fellow Murphy stood in with you to work a hocuspocus game on me, eh?" he thundered. "By Godfrey, I'll fire him for it!" and he rushed to the office door, opened it and called to Skinner: "Skinner, Murphy is to be fired. Attend to it." Then he closed the door again and faced Matt Peasley.

"Murphy is to be reinstated," Matt assured Cappy, "for the reason that Murphy was in deadly earnest when he signed that paper. In five minutes he would have been a skipper without a ship, and he knew it. If you fire Murphy you do a fine man a terrible injustice."

"Well, how in blue blazes did he get so close to the beach and let himself into your clutches?" Cappy raved.

"He couldn't answer that question, sir. He doesn't know. He thinks the current set him in there. It didn't. I set him in there."

"You set him in?" Cappy queried incredulously.

"I set him in. I kept backing up on his starboard counter, ostensibly to dicker with him, and as soon as I had the stern of my tug within a few feet of the Retriever I'd signal my mate at the wheel, he'd give the engineer full speed ahead—why you have no idea of the force of the quick water thrown back from that big towing propeller of the Sea Fox. The rush of it just swung the Retriever's nose slowly toward the beach and kicked her ahead fifteen or twenty feet, and then her sheer momentum carried her thirty yards farther. By that time I was backed up to her again, bargaining with Murphy, and ready for another kick. It was easier after the flood tide set in, and I kept at her all night long, and gradually kicked her into the breakers, where I wanted her. I knew Murphy would listen to reason then. So you see, Mr. Ricks, it wasn't a salvage job, and I didn't betray my owners at all—"

"You Yankee thief!" Cappy yelled, and dashed at Matt, to enfold the son-in-law-to-be in a paternal embrace. "Oh, Matt, my boy, why do you want to be a tugboat man when I need a man with your brains? Why don't you be sensible and listen to reason?"

Matt held the old man off at arm's length and grinned at him affectionately.

"It's worth twenty thousand dollars to get the better of you, sir," he said.

Cappy sat down very suddenly.

"Ah, yes," he said. "Speaking of money reminds me: What do you intend doing with that twenty thousand dollars?"

"Well, I thought at first I'd go into the shipping business for myself—"

"Skiffs or gasoline launches—which?" Cappy twitted him.

"But you seem bent on having your way, and Florry is making such a fuss, I suppose I'll have to give in to you after all."

Matt stepped to the door, opened it and called: "Mr. Skinner!"

Mr. Skinner looked up from his desk by the window. "Well, sir!" he demanded haughtily.

"Murphy is not to be fired," Matt answered.

"Indeed! And by whose orders?"

"Mine! I'm the port captain of the Blue Star Navigation Company, and, beginning now, I'm going to do all the hiring and firing of captains."

Mr. Skinner turned pale. He started from his chair and made two steps toward Cappy Ricks' office, firmly resolved to present his resignation then and there. At the door, however, he thought better of it, hesitated, returned to his desk and sat down again, for he had suddenly remembered, and, remembering, discovered that Cappy Ricks had laid upon him a burden that must be reckoned with—the burden of his own future. He flushed and bit his lips; then, feeling Matt Peasley's eyes boring into the small of his back, he turned and said:

"I have every reason to believe, Captain Peasley, that you are the right man in the right place."

Matt advanced upon him and held out his hand.

"Mr. Ricks has always bragged that you could think quicker and act quicker in an emergency than any man he ever knew. He's right, you can. Suppose we bury that pick-handle, Mr. Skinner?"

Mr. Skinner's lips twitched in a wry smile, but he took Matt Peasley's hand and wrung it heartily, not because he loved Matt Peasley or ever would, but because he had a true appreciation of Abraham Lincoln's philosophy to the effect that a house divided against itself must surely fall. "I'm sure we'll get along famously together," he said.

"You know it," Matt answered heartily, and stepped back into Cappy's office.

"Well," said Cappy, "that was mighty well done, Matt. Thank you. So you think you'll quit the Sea Fox and be my port captain, eh?"

"I think so, sir."

"Well, I do not, Matt. The fact of the matter is, your business education is now about to commence, and about two minutes ago I suddenly decided that you might as well pay for it with your own money. I have no doubt such a course will meet with the approval of your independent spirit anyhow. You're a little too uppish yet, Matt. You must be chastened, and the only way to chasten a man and make him humble is to turn him loose to fight with the pack for a while. Consequently I'm going to turn you loose, Matt; there are some wolves along California Street that will take your twenty thousand away from you so fast that you won't know it's going till it's gone. But the loss will do you a heap of good—and I guess Florry can wait a while."

He paused and eyed Matt meditatively for fully a minute.

"And you kicked my barkentine ashore with the quick water from your tug's propeller," he mused aloud. "Got her where you wanted her—and Murphy didn't suspect! He laid it to the current!" Cappy shook his head. "A dirty Yankee trick," he continued, "and I love you for it—in fact, it breaks my heart not to make good that grandstand play you just pulled on Skinner, but I've changed my mind about hiring you yet. I'm just going to sit back and have some fun watching you defend that little old twenty-thousand dollars I just gave you. Do you know, Matt, that I never knew a man to save up a thousand dollars, by denying himself many things, that he didn't invest the thousand in a wild-cat mine or a dry oil well? Ah, Matt, it's those first few dollars that come so hard and go so easy that break most men's hearts; but here you are with twenty thousand that came so easy I've just naturally got to see how hard they go! You'll be worth more money to me, Matt, and you'll be a safer man to handle this business when I'm gone, if you go out and play the game for a while by yourself. You have a secret itching to do it anyhow, Matt, and in surrendering to me just now you went down with your colors flying. You just wanted to be kind to the old man, didn't you? Well, I appreciate it, Matt, because I'm an old man, and I know how hard it is for a boy to yield to an old man's wishes; but youth must be served, and God forbid that I should rob you of the joy of the conflict, my boy. When you're busted flat and need some more money, you may have it up to the amount to your credit on our books. And when that's gone I guess you'll make a better port captain than you will this morning. Does that program suit you better than the one I originally outlined?"

Matt flushed and hung his head in embarrassment, but answered truthfully: "Yes, sir."

"Very well," said Cappy, relapsing into one of his frequent colloquialisms, "go to it, boy. Eat it up."



CHAPTER XXXVI. CAPPY FORBIDS THE BANS—YET

Cappy Ricks sat at breakfast, tapping meditatively on the apex of a boiled egg, when his daughter swished into the room, saluted her interesting parent by depositing a light kiss on his bald and ingenuous head, and took her place at the table.

Florence Ricks was a radiant vision in a filmy pink breakfast gown and cap, and as she smiled perkily at Cappy he returned her bright look with one a trifle sad and yearning.

"Florence, my love," said Cappy gently, "have you, by any chance, talked with that big, two-fisted sailor of yours within the past twelve hours?"

She shook her head negatively, tilting her nose and pursing her lips in an adorable grimace of disapproval.

"Since Matt Peasley has been master of that tug I see him only when his owners cannot find something more important for him to do. Why do you pop that question at me so suddenly? Did you want to see him about something?"

"No. I saw him yesterday forenoon, and we went into a clinch and fought each other all over my private office. Matt got the decision. I thought he might have called you up to discuss with you his plans for the future. When he left me yesterday he was on his way back to the office of the Red Stack Tugboat Company to tell the port captain he could stick some other skipper on the tug Sea Fox."

Florence clapped her hands ecstatically. "Oh, goody, goody!" she cried.

"Well, it might be worse."

"Why is he resigning? To go to work for you, as I wanted him to do six months ago?"

"Well, I'll tell you, Florry," Cappy began. "I know you're going to be disappointed, but the fact of the matter is we've just got to let that boy paddle his own canoe—though, to hear him talk, he's going to operate his own line of steamers! Matt doesn't think in canoes when the subject of the merchant marine is up for discussion any more than I think in cent pieces when I'm wrestling with a banker for a loan. He has resigned from the tug Sea Fox to go into business for himself!"

"But how can he? He hasn't any money, you silly man!"

"Oh, yes, he has. I gave him twenty thousand dollars yesterday. He had that much credit on the Blue Star books from his share of the recharter of the steamer Unicorn nearly two years ago."

"But I thought you weren't going to give him any of that money," Florence protested.

"I thought so, too," Cappy answered dryly; "but the scoundrel put up a low-down job on me and pried the twenty thousand loose," and Cappy proceeded to relate to Florry the sad tale of the salvage of the Retriever.

Florence was gifted with the same lovable sense of humor that distinguished her father; and, somewhat to his annoyance, she laughed long and heartily at this tale of how her fiance had vanquished him.

"And then what?" she queried with childish insouciance.

"Why, then he made friends with Skinner and, to my complete amazement, surrendered without firing a shot. He said he'd be my port captain now; whereas six months ago he said it was against his religion to work for a relative, and that he wanted to go into business for himself. And only the day before he'd reiterated those sentiments."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" said Florry, much relieved.

"Wait!" said Cappy dramatically. "Don't cheer yet. I've upset your apple cart, my dear. I rejected the young man's proposition and condemned him to a business of his own."

"But you wanted him for your port captain, Daddy dear. You wanted him the very worst way."

"And that's just how I got him, Florry. I don't want any man whose heart is not in his job, and a business man should never surrender for sentimental reasons. You cannot mix sentiment and business, daughter; if you do you'll get chaos. Matt Peasley surrendered to me—not because he wanted to, but to please you. You've been picking on him rather hard lately, haven't you?"

Florry admitted it.

"I knew it," Cappy declared. "I knew it—and that's why I exercised the veto on you, Florry."

Florry's eyes dropped, and in the corners of them her father thought he detected a glint of tears; whereupon he attacked his egg vigorously. After a brief silence he said:

"Of course that means a slight delay in your plans for a June wedding—"

A tear crept through Florry's long lashes and dropped unheeded into her grapefruit. Cappy saw it drop, but resolved to be cruel and ignore it.

"The infernal schemer couldn't resist the temptation to take a fall out of your old man, Florry; so naturally I had to take a fall out of him; though, at that, I have doubts whether I succeeded. I think I played into his hand; and now I'm telling you about it to save him the trouble and grief of an explanation he couldn't make and which you wouldn't understand—from him. Some day my affairs will all be yours, Florry—yours and Matt's; and he'll have to manage them for you. To manage them well, he must have experience; hence, I decided, in about two flips of a humming-bird's tail, that it would be a mighty good thing for you and Matt if I forced him into business for himself and, as I informed him, let him pay for that experience with his own money; for that is the only kind of money that will buy him any experience worth while. No young man ever learned a great deal when some sentimental old fool footed the bill for his tuition fees in the college of hard knocks."

"Poor Matt!" Florry sobbed. "He hasn't—had anything—except hard knocks since he was—fourteen years—old."

"Yes," shrilled Cappy; "and just look at the difference between him and these la-di-da boys that never had any hard knocks! Hard knocks! Why, hard knocks keep that devilish fellow in condition!"

"But I'd planned—we didn't want to have too long an—engagement—"

"I'll guarantee you, little daughter, you will not have to wait longer than six months. Please wait—for my sake." And Cappy rose, made his way round the breakfast table and placed his old arms about the light and joy of his existence. "So, so, now!" he soothed. "Don't you cry, honey, until you hear what the old man has to say. Why, haven't I always given my little daughter everything she wanted? You wanted that big sailor, Florry; I saw he wanted you; and he looked awful good to me. I knew he was man, every inch of him; he was our kind of people and he knew ships and loved them, and so I wanted him for you. What if he was a big hunk of a sailor with hardly enough money saved up to buy you half a dozen party dresses? None of the Ricks tribe was ever born or bred in the purple—and I have money enough for all practical purposes. So I went after him for you, Florry, and you're going to get him; so don't cry about it."

"Life is so filled with disappointments," Florry sobbed, notwithstanding this was the first she had ever known.

Cappy smiled a still small smile as he bent over her.

"Fiddlesticks!" he replied. "Only the day before yesterday Matt told me he didn't want to work for me; that he didn't want a relative handing him any favors; and that he wasn't marrying you to ease himself into a soft job for life. He said he wanted to make the fight himself. And do you know, Florry, if he had been my own boy I couldn't have been prouder of him than when he told me that! When old What-you-may-call-him in Shakespeare's play said: 'Let me have men about me that are fat,' it showed how blamed little Shakespeare knew about men. He should have said: 'Let me have men about me who are long and tough, and fairly thick in the middle; let me have scrappy boys about me with backbone!'

"Well, in a way, Florry, I was disappointed, and perhaps, in the heat of the moment, I showed it, as I have a habit of doing; but after Matt had left the office, and I got to thinking it over, away down low I was proud of him. Consequently when he reversed his decision yesterday I knew why, for I lived twenty-five years with your mother. But a woman's love is selfish sometimes, and I knew that Matt had surrendered, not to me, but to you; though he came across like a sport, he didn't want to, for you'd roweled him and roped him with your love, my dear—and, though you do not know it, that's a terrible thing to do to a free-running colt like Matt Peasley. He has his code, and it's a bully code; and I don't want you to tie knots in it, Florry. Won't you be as spunky and independent as he is, and give him his head for six months more? He'll probably call sometime to-day, or ring up, to tell you how I picked holes in the program; and when he does I want you to smile and tell him you're glad of it, and suggest a postponement of the wedding until he has demonstrated to me that he is a business man."

Florence looked up and bravely smiled a forgiving smile through her tears.

"You're a dreadful Buttinsky, Daddy Ricks!" she protested.

He kissed her hungrily.

"Oh, I'm a devil in my own home town!" he replied, and trotted back to his neglected breakfast. "If Matt hasn't made good as a business man within six months, or has lost his bank roll—and I intend to see to it that he does lose it, if I ever get a hack at him—we'll pull off this wedding anyhow. I guess there's room enough in this house for three."

At nine o'clock Cappy Ricks, with a lilt in his heart, drove down to his office behind his team of high-stepping bays. At the corner of California and Drumm Streets he saw Matt Peasley and hailed him. The latter came to the carriage door and looked in.

"It's all right, Matt," Cappy said with a cunning wink. "I've fixed Florry's clock for her. There won't be the slightest trouble."

Matt Peasley wrung his hand gratefully.

"I quit the Sea Fox last night," he announced gladly.

"Going into business this morning, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir."

"What line?"

"Ship, freight and marine insurance broker."

"Well, that's a line that will keep you hustling for your wheatcakes until you get well acquainted. However, just to give you a shove in the right direction, you might scout round the market and see whether you can dig up a cargo for our steamer Tillicum. Usual commission of two and a half per cent."

"Thank you, Mr. Ricks. I ought to be able to scare up something in the way of a foreign lumber cargo for her."

"We've tried and failed. Moreover, her fuel-oil tankage isn't sufficient to take her too far foreign and back; added to which she is under American registry, employing American seamen, and I'd rather lay her up than put a coolie crew aboard and compete with the British tramps, with their Lascar and Chinamen, at six and seven dollars a month. We've been running her in our own trade; but the lumber market is very dull and she has but one more cargo in sight; after that is freighted, unless we can find outside business for her, she'll have to lay up in Oakland Inner Harbor until the Panama Canal opens—when, of course, we can load her for the Atlantic seaboard. She carries nearly two million feet, and that's what makes it so hard for us to keep her busy coastwise."