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

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.

"I'm afraid I shouldn't be of much use," Austen answered. "They'd have given me a back seat, too." The Widow Peasley's was a frame and gabled house of Revolutionary days with a little terrace in front of it and a retaining wall built up from the sidewalk. Austen, on the steps, stood gazing across at a square mansion with a wide cornice, half hidden by elms and maples and pines.

Skinner entered Cappy Ricks' office bearing an envelope marked "Photo. Do not crush or bend!" From the announcement in the upper right-hand corner the general manager deduced that the photograph was from Matt Peasley. "Well, here's Captain Peasley's picture, Mr. Ricks," he announced. "Ah! Splendid. Prompt, isn't he?"

Cappy Ricks sprang into the air and got one thin old arm round Matt Peasley's neck; with the other he groped for Skinner, for there were tears in his fine old eyes. "What a pair of lads to have round me!" he said huskily.

This berth he continued to occupy with pleasure and profit to all concerned, until a small financial tidal wave, which began with Matt Peasley's purchase, at a ridiculously low figure, of the Oriental Steamship Company's huge freighter, Narcissus, swept the cunning Matthew into the presidency of the Blue Star Navigation Company; whereupon Matt designed to take Murphy out of the Retriever and have him try his hand in steam as master of the Narcissus.

The morning following Matt Peasley's triumphant return from Panama with the steamer Tillicum, Cappy Ricks created a mild sensation in his offices by reporting for duty at a quarter past eight. Mr. Skinner was already at his desk, for he was a slave driver who drove himself fully as hard as he did those under him. He glanced up apprehensively as Cappy bustled in. "Why, what has happened, Mr.

The team started on toward Peasley's farm as if nothing had happened, with Harry and Samson standing on the load. In a moment they saw, to their astonishment, Biggs and a colored servant coming at a slow trot. Were the slaves they carried the property of Biggs? "Stop that wagon," the latter shouted. Samson kept on, turning out a little to let them pass.

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.

Then slowly the rage died out in Matt Peasley's fine eyes and a lilting, boyish grin spread over his face, for he was one of those rare human beings who can smile, no matter what the prospect, once he has definitely committed himself to a definite course of action.