“Not a peep out of you, Skinner--not a peep!” he cautioned his general manager. “No thanks due me. You've earned it a thousand times over--and then some. Hum-m! Ahem! Harumph-h-h! By the way, Skinner, my dear boy, I forgot to mention to you another little idea that's in the back of my head.”
“You mean about sending Matt to sea for a voyage?”
“Exactly. The sea is a wonderful institution, Skinner--wonderful! It promotes health and strength; and--er--damn it, Skinner, my dear boy, have you ever observed that there isn't a married skipper in our employ that hasn't been lucky? Many well-known authorities prescribe a sea voyage--”
Cappy thrust his thumb into Skinner's ribs, winked, bent low, and whispered:
“Too slow, Skinner; too slow. I'm getting old, you know--I can't wait for ever. And if the experiment succeeds--Skinner, my dear boy, you're next! You've been married more than a year now--”
One of the remarks most frequently heard on California Street was to the effect that whenever Cappy Ricks girded up his loins and went after something he generally got it. His scheme to get Matt Peasley to sea for one voyage, accompanied by Florry, worked as smoothly as a piston; and on the fifteenth of January the Peasleys went aboard the _Retriever_ at Bellingham and towed out, bound for Manila with a cargo of fir lumber. Matt made the run down in sixty-six days, a smart passage, waited a week in Manila Bay before he could secure a berth and commence discharging, discharged in a week, loaded a cargo of hemp, with a deckload of hardwood logs, and was ready for the return trip to San Francisco on April twenty-fourth, on which day he towed out past Corregidor.
His wife, however, was not with him on the return voyage. Following a family conference, it was decided that Florry should return home on the mail steamer--which action Cappy Ricks considered most significant when Matt apprised him of it by cable, but failed to state a reason. The president emeritus, immediately upon receipt of this information, trotted into Mr. Skinner's office and laid Matt Peasley's cablegram on the latter's desk.
“Well, Skinner, my dear boy,” he piped, rubbing his hands together the while, “what do you know about that?”