Cappy Ricks Part 12

When Matt Peasley's report of that long voyage reached the Blue Star Navigation Company it was opened by Mr. Skinner, who, finding no letter enclosed, had a clerk check and verify it, and then pa.s.s it on to old Cappy Ricks.

"Where's the letter that came with this report, Skinner?" Cappy piped.

"He didn't enclose one, Mr. Ricks."

"Im-possible!"

"All of Captain Peasley's communications with this office since he entered our employ have been by wire."

"But--dad-burn the fellow, Skinner--why doesn't he write and tell us something?"

"About what?"

"Why, about his s.h.i.+p, his voyage--any old thing. An owner likes to have a report on his property once in a while, doesn't he? Unless we happen to charter the Retriever for a cargo to her home port, you know very well, Skinner, we may not see her for years. Besides, I've never seen the man Peasley, and if he'd only write now and then I could get a line on him from his letters. I can always tell a fool by the letter he writes, Skinner."

"Well, then," Skinner replied. "Peasley must be a wise man, because he never writes at all. The only specimen of that fellow's handwriting I've ever seen is his signature on the drafts he draws against us. You will notice that he has even engaged a stenographer--at his own expense, so the clerk informs me--to typewrite his statement of account."

"Then that explains it, Skinner. The big-fisted brute can't write a hand that anybody could read. But, still, he should have dictated a letter, Skinner. The least he might have done was to say: 'Enclosed herewith find my report of disburs.e.m.e.nts for last voyage.' And then he could have slipped in some mild complaint about the creosote, the trouble he had in getting a crew, and so on.

"I don't see why you complain about a lack of correspondence, sir," Mr.

Skinner protested. "For my part, I think it a profound relief to have a captain that isn't writing or wiring in complaints about slow dispatch in loading or discharging, his private feuds with marine cooks and walking delegates from the Sailors' Union. Confound these fellows that are always unloading a cargo of woe on their owners! It strikes me that they're trying to square themselves for incompetence."

"I agree with you, Skinner. But then, all the Thomaston Peasleys were quick-tempered and wouldn't be imposed on; and I hate to think I've picked the only one of the tribe who will dog it and never let a peep out of him."

"Oh!" said Mr. Skinner. "I see! You want him to start something with you, eh?"

Cappy evaded this blunt query, however, and turned his attention to the report.

"h.e.l.lo!" he said. "I'm blessed if he hasn't antic.i.p.ated the very question I should have asked. Here's a footnote in red ink: 'Decided not to carry third mate. Two mates ample.' And so two mates are ample, Skinner, though I used to humor Cap'n Noah with three. This confirms me in the belief that Peasley must be a young man, Skinner, and not afraid to stand a watch himself if necessary. And here's another footnote: 'Chief Mate Michael J. Murphy very gallantly declined to leave when he smelled the creosote, and was a tower of strength when it came to stowing the nitrate. He holds an unlimited mate's license, is sober, intelligent, courageous, honest and a hard worker. He goes up for his master's license this week!"

"Ah-h-h!" Cappy Ricks looked up, smiling. "Skinner," he declared, "it is as hard to keep a good man down as it is for a camel to enter the Kingdom of Heaven--I mean for a rich man to enter a camel--bother! I mean you can't keep a good man down, Skinner. And this is the reason: The first mate, Murphy, wanted to leave, but his loyalty would not permit it. Hence the man Peasley must be a good, fair, decent man, to inspire such loyalty. He is, and this report proves it. His action in bringing Murphy to our attention indicates appreciation and a sense of justice. Good! Skinner, make a note of the qualifications of Michael J.

Murphy for a master's berth and give him the first opening."

He returned to a perusal of the report.

"Huh! Harump-h-h-h! 'Credit by skipper's rake-off on stores, and so on, $57.03.' Skinner, that proves the man Peasley is too decent and honest to accept a commission from the thieves who supply his vessel, because he knows that if they give him a commission they'll only tack it on to the bill, where he can't see it. Well! All the Thomaston Peasleys were honest, Skinner. No thanks to him. Still, it's a shame to give him another rough deal, for apparently he has--er--many--er--commendable qualities. Still--er--Skinner, I've just got to have a letter from the man Peasley, if it is only a letter of resignation. Get him another dirty cargo, Skinner, the dirtier the better."

The dirtiest cargo Mr. Skinner could think of, with the exception of a load of creosoted piling, was another cargo of the same. So he scoured the market and finally he found one on Puget Sound, whereupon he sent Matt Peasley a telegram ordering him to tow to the Ranier Mill and Lumber Company's dock at Tacoma, and load for Callao. At the same time he wired the Ranier people requesting them to be ready to furnish cargo to the Retriever the following day--this on the strength of a telegram from Matt Peasley received the previous day informing his owners that he was discharged and awaiting orders.

CHAPTER XV. RUMORS OF WAR

When four days had elapsed the manager of the Ranier mill wired the Blue Star Navigation Company that the Retriever had not yet appeared at their dock.

Now four days wasted means something to a big barkentine like the Retriever; and in the absence of any excuse for the delay Cappy Ricks promptly came to the conclusion that Matt Peasley was ash.o.r.e in Seattle, disporting himself after the time-honored custom of deep-sea sailors home from a long cruise. There could be no other reason for such flagrant inattention to orders; for, had the man Peasley been ill, the mate, Murphy, whom the captain vouched for as sober and intelligent, would have had his superior sent to a hospital and wired the office for orders.

"Skinner," said Cappy, "send in a stenographer."

When the girl appeared Cappy Ricks dictated this wire:

Captain Matthew Peasley, Master Barkentine Retriever, Colman Dock, Seattle, Was.h.i.+ngton.

Are you drunk, dead or asleep? You have your orders. Obey them P.D.Q. or turn over command to Chief Mate Murphy.

Alden P. Ricks.

"There!" he shrilled. "I've signed my name to it. Sign a telegram Blue Star Navigation Company and these infernal skippers think a clerk sent it; but when they know the boss is on to them they'll jump lively. Bring me the answer to that as soon as it comes, Skinner."

However, the answer did not come that day. Indeed, the next day had almost dragged to a close before Mr. Skinner appeared with this telegraphic bomb:

Alden P. Ricks, 258 California St., San Francisco.

Neither! Been waiting my turn to go on dry dock. On now.

Didn't reply yesterday because too busy driving toothpicks in vessel's bottom to plug up wormholes. If Murphy hadn't hauled into fresh water last time on Grays Harbor while I was in Seattle getting my ticket, her bottom would look like a colander now. Sixteen months in the water. You ought to be ashamed to treat a good staunch s.h.i.+p like that. Off dock day after to-morrow; will tow to Tacoma immediately thereafter.

Meantime expect apology for insulting telegram.

Peasley.

Sixteen months without dry-docking! Why, her bottom must look like the devil! Cappy Ricks gazed long and earnestly at his general manager.

"Skinner," he said, "you're an a.s.s! Why was not this vessel dry-docked before you sent her to Antof.a.gasta?"

Mr. Skinner lost his temper.

"Because I didn't send her to Antof.a.gasta," he replied sharply. "You did! And the reason she wasn't docked is because there isn't a dock on Grays Harbor. If you wouldn't interfere in the s.h.i.+pping, Mr. Ricks, and spoil my plans to satisfy your personal whims, the vessel would never have gone on that long voyage without being cleaned and painted."

"Enough!" Cappy half screamed. "It's a disgrace! Not another word, sir!

Not another peep out of you. Why didn't you order the man Peasley to dock her? Why did you leave the decision to him? He knew his vessel was foul--he thought we ought to know it, also; and naturally he expected that when we ordered him to Seattle we would have made arrangements to put him on dry dock. Instead of which he had to make them himself; and I'm shown up as a regular, infernal--er--er--baboon! Yes, sir! Regular baboon! Nice spectacle you've made of me, getting me into a sc.r.a.pe where I have to apologize to my own captain! Baboon! Huh! Baboon! Yes; you're the baboon!"

"Well, I can't think of everything, Mr. Ricks--"

"Everything! Good Lord, man, if you'd only think of something! Send in a stenographer."

Mr. Skinner rang for the girl and retired in high dudgeon, while Cappy Ricks smote his corrugated brow and brought forth the following:

Captain Matthew Peasley, Master Barkentine Retriever, Hall's Dry Dock, Eagle Harbor, Wash.

"Yes; that was a grave oversight sending you to Antof.a.gasta without docking you first. Express my appreciation of Murphy's forethought in killing some of the worms. Am not kind of owner that lets a s.h.i.+p go to glory to make dividends. Keep your vessel in top-notch shape at all times, though I realize this instruction unnecessary to you. Give the old girl all that is coming to her, including two coats X. & Y. copper paint.

Replace all planking that looks suspicious.

Alden P. Ricks.

"I guess that's friendly enough," he soliloquized. "I think he'll understand. I don't have to crawl in the dirt to let him know I'm sorry."

Cappy had recovered his composure by the following morning and was addressing Mr. Skinner as "Skinner, my dear boy," when another telegram from Matt Peasley created a very distinct variation in his mental compa.s.s. It ran as follows: