ow it, also; and naturally he expected
that when we ordered him to Seattle we would have made arrangements to
put him on dry dock. Instead of which he had to make them himself; and
I'm shown up as a regular, infernal--er--er--baboon! Yes, sir! Regular
baboon! Nice spectacle you've made of me, getting me into a scrape where
I have to apologize to my own captain! Baboon! Huh! Baboon! Yes; you're
the baboon!"

"Well, I can't think of everything, Mr. Ricks--"

"Everything! Good Lord, man, if you'd only think of something! Send in a
stenographer."

Mr. Skinner rang for the girl and retired in high dudgeon, while Cappy
Ricks smote his corrugated brow and brought forth the following:

Captain Matthew Peasley,
Master Barkentine Retriever,
Hall's Dry Dock, Eagle Harbor, Wash.

"Yes; that was a grave oversight sending you to Antofagasta
without docking you first. Express my appreciation of Murphy's
forethought in killing some of the worms. Am not kind of owner
that lets a ship go to glory to make dividends. Keep your
vessel in top-notch shape at all times, though I realize this
instruction unnecessary to you. Give the old girl all that is
coming to her, including two coats X. & Y. copper paint.
Replace all planking that looks suspicious.

Alden P. Ricks.

"I guess that's friendly enough," he soliloquized. "I think he'll
understand. I don't have to crawl in the dirt to let him know I'm
sorry."

Cappy had recovered his composure by the following morning and was
addressing Mr. Skinner as "Skinner, my dear boy," when another telegram
from Matt Peasley created a very distinct variation in his mental
compass. It ran as follows:

Alden P. Ricks,
258 California St.
San Francisco.

X. & Y. copper paint no good. That brand used last time; hence
worms got to her quickly. Giving her two coats O. & Z. Costs
more, but does the business. Renewed about a dozen planks.
Repair bill about offsets profit on that infernal nitrate.
Your apology accepted, but do not say that again!

Peasley.

"'Your apology is accepted!'" Cappy's voice rose, shrill with anger.
"Why, the infernal--er--er--porpoise! Me apologize to a man I employ!
By jingo, I'd fire him first! Yes, sir--fire him like that!" The old man
snapped his fingers.

"Really, Skinner, I don't know what I'm going to do about the man