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At Makaweli he found a sugar cargo awaiting him for discharge at Seattle; and, thanks to the northwest trades at her quarter, the Retriever wallowed home reasonably fast. 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 pass it on to old Cappy Ricks.
Naturally this somewhat cryptic cablegram roused Matt Peasley's curiosity. He could not rest until he had interviewed the agent and after that sop to his inquisitiveness he returned to the Retriever a broken man. The loyal and disgusted Murphy read the trouble in the master's face.
Putter's best robe about her feet, the mare leaped forward, and they were off, out of the circle and flying up the hill on the hard snow-tracks. "Whew!" exclaimed Victoria, "what a relief! Are you staying in that dear little house?" she asked, with a glance at the Widow Peasley's. "Yes," said Austen. "I wish I were." He looked at her shyly.
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.
The snow was of a dazzling whiteness and sprinkled with diamond dust; and the air of such transcendent clearness that Austen could see by leaning a little out of the Widow Peasley's window the powdered top of Holdfast Mountain some thirty miles away.
It was; and this is what the loyal Murphy had to say: "I thank you for the consideration. Very sweet of you; but I wouldn't work for you again on a bet. You couldn't hand me a ripe peach! Master or mate, creosote tastes the same to me. At Captain Peasley's request am staying by vessel until new master arrives and hires new mate.
The storm was over, and the bare trees, when the moon shone between the hurrying clouds, cast lacelike shadows on the white velvet surface of the snow as Austen forged his way up the hill to the Widow Peasley's in keeping with his promise to Mr. Redbrook. Across the street he paused outside the picket-fence to gaze at the yellow bars of light between the slats of the windows of the Duncan house.
He had come up from before the mast in the ships of the Blue Star Navigation Company, and since he had ambitions he had been at some pains to acquaint himself with the peculiarities of the president of that corporation. "Give Cappy Ricks one look into Matt Peasley's face and I'll be skippering the Retriever," he declared.
The idea of a man's paying thirty thousand dollars for a dinky old corporation seal worth two and a half!" Matt Peasley's face went white with suppressed fury. "Yes," he said quietly. "I seem to remember some such prophecy; also, some conversation to the effect that I'd be a better business man if I purchased my business experience with my own money.
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.
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