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Updated: May 3, 2025
I'm going to proceed to break his young heart; and if he yells murder I'll fire him! On the contrary, if he's one of Ethan's tribe well, the Peasleys always did their duty; I'll say that for them. I hope he stands the acid." Whereupon Cappy Ricks squared round to his desk and wrote: San Francisco, July 5, 19 . Captain Matthew Peasley, Master Barkentine Retriever, Hoquiam, Washington.
The Kanaka sailor couldn't talk much English, but it seems that his granddad, or some of his ancestors, must have belonged to the same breed of cats as these islanders, for he could manage to understand a little of their lingo. "'Picture! says he, crazy-like with joy. 'Picture, cappy; picture!
That vessel and cargo were thrown back on my hands, not on yours; so why should you ask questions about my business? You've got your nerve with you!" "But you'll have to render an accounting to Morrow & Company," Cappy charged. "I'll not.
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.
I know Mike Murphy will not take that view of it; for my sake he'll fight to the last gasp, but he must have help, and Reardon owes me no such allegiance as Murphy." "Well, he owes me something," Cappy spoke up. "You promised him a hundred and seventy-five dollars a month and I raised the ante to two hundred. It was an investment, pure and simple.
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 I've lightened her somewhat I'll kick her into the shore, little by little, until she lies in shallow water with her bulwarks above the surface. Then I'll patch the holes in her, pump her out and up she'll come, of course." "You say that so glibly," Gappy growled, "one would almost think you could whistle it." "Don't feel sore, Cappy.
I tell you, sir, the Ricks interests have absorbed all the old soldiers possible and at the present moment those interests are overflowing with glory. What we want are workers, not talkers. These ex-soldiers spend too much time fighting their battles over again." "Well, Comrade Peck is the last one I'll ask you to absorb, Skinner," Cappy promised contritely.
We investigated you. Your name is Michael J. Murphy; naturally we knew you were Irish; and the Irish your kind of Irish are not sympathetic toward the cause of Merry England. The same held true of your chief engineer, Mr. Reardon. We knew of the passion of this interesting person, Cappy Ricks, for cutting down expenses.
"Twenty-five years you sailed under the Blue Star, and in all that time there was never once when I had to jack up and tell you to 'tend to business. And, Noah, you could make a suit of sails last longer than any man I ever knew; but you did have a hell of a temper." And having delivered this touching eulogy on the late Captain Kendall, Cappy roused himself and faced Skinner.
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