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Updated: June 8, 2025
Skinner would say when they heard the glorious news. For nearly an hour not a word passed between the pair. Presently Cappy's regular breathing drew Murphy's attention to him. He had fallen asleep in his seat, his chin bent on his old breast, a little half-smile on his lips. And as Murphy looked at him pridefully Cappy spoke in his sleep: "Holy sailor! How Mike Murphy can swear!"
Cappy's ancestors, back in Maine, had built too many ships to have failed to impress upon him the wisdom of this course; for, on this point at least, initial extravagance inevitably develops into ultimate economy. Following the laying of the keel, Cappy would come out of retirement and become an extremely busy man.
Murphy mused, "of course I'd be a little old man weighing about a hundred and thirty pounds ring-side, and I wouldn't be able to thrash you myself, but if it took my last dollar I'd send somebody down here to do the job for me. "Well, I guess that's just about what Cappy has done," Matt admitted, and handed his mate Cappy's cablegram. "Hah-hah!" Mr. Murphy commented.
"Matt," he said kindly, "look me in the eyes and see if you can have the crust to tell me that, with all that freight money in your possession, you do not intend to apply the residue to the payments of these claims against the Tillicum." Matt bent low and peered fiercely into Cappy's face, for all the world like a belligerent rooster. "Once more, my dear Mr.
"Sit down, Mr. Peck." Mr. Peck sat down, but as he crossed to the chair beside Cappy's desk, the old gentleman noticed that his visitor walked with a slight limp, and that his left forearm had been amputated half way to the elbow. To the observant Cappy, the American Legion button in Mr. Peck's lapel told the story. "Well, Mr. Peck," he queried gently, "what can I do for you?"
Fell a silence, broken presently by Cappy's: "Huh! Ahem! Harump!" Then: "When I came in from my club last night, Matt, I believe Florry had a caller." "Yes, sir," said Matt; "I was there." "Huh! I got a squint at you. Am I mistaken in assuming that you were wearing a dress suit?" "No, sir." "Whadja mean by wasting your savings on a dress suit?" Cappy exploded.
He dined at his club, and when it was time for him to leave and his daughter sent her car for him, he lacked the courage to go home and face his son-in-law. So he spent the night at the club and came down to the office about noon, hoping Matt Peasley would have recovered from the shock by that time. The latter was waiting for him, and came into Cappy's sanctum immediately to hold a post-mortem.
"Must have shipped in San Francisco just before the vessel sailed for her loading port," Cappy announced. "Send in a boy." One of Cappy's young men was summoned. "Son," said Cappy, "you run down, like a good boy, to the office of the Deputy United States Shipping Commissioner and tell him Mr. Ricks would like to see the duplicate copy of the crew list of the barkentine Retriever."
"Then," Matt averred impudently, "the only thing for me to do is to call Cappy's." "How?" "Why, give his messenger a good trouncing, of course. You don't suppose I'm going to stand by and take a thrashing or let the other fellow heave me overboard, do you? I should say not!" Mr. Murphy puffed at his pipe, in silence for several minutes, the while he pondered the situation.
Terence P. Reardon, port engineer of the Blue Star Navigation Company, entered. Mr. Reardon's right eye was in deep mourning and at no very remote period something presumably a fist had shifted his nose slightly to starboard; indeed, even as he entered Cappy's office a globule of the rich red Reardon blood trembled in each of the port engineer's nostrils.
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