en laid it
face down on his desk, while he got out his spectacles, cleaned them
carefully, adjusted them and gazed at the photograph once more.

"Ahem! Hu-m-m-m! Harump-h-h-h! Well, Skinner, life is certainly full of
glad surprises," he announced presently, and added--"particularly where
that man Peasley is concerned. I never did see the beat of that fellow."

"May I see his photograph, sir?" Mr. Skinner pleaded.

"Certainly," and Cappy passed it to the general manager, who glanced
once at it and smiled down whimsically at Cappy.

"Yes, I agree with you, Mr. Ricks," he said. "Of all the surprises that
man Peasley has handed us, this is the greatest."

Cappy nodded and smiled a little prescient smile. "Skinner," he said,
"send in a stenographer. I'm going to send him a telegram."

He did. Matt Peasley blinked when he got it, and for the first time
since he had commenced exchanging telegrams and cablegrams with the
peculiar Mr. Ricks he was thoroughly non-plussed--so much so, in fact,
that he called his right bower, Michael J. Murphy, into consultation.

"Mike," he said, and handed the mate the telegram, "what in the world do
you suppose the old duffer means by that?"

Mr. Murphy read:

"Matt, I always knew you were young, but I had no suspicion you
were a child in arms until I received your photograph."

"Serves you right," the mate declared. "I told you to send the photo of
an OLD man."

"But I did, Mike. I sent him a picture of an old pappy-guy sort of man,
with long, mutton-chop whiskers, glasses and an old-fashioned collar as
tall as the taffrail."

"It beats my time then what he's driving at, Captain Matt. But then one
can never tell what Cappy Ricks is up to. I've heard he's a great
hand to have his little joke, so I daresay that telegram is meant for
sarcasm."

Matt had a horrifying inspiration. "I know what's wrong," he cried
bitterly. "He thinks I'm so old I ought to be retired, and that telegram
is in the nature of a hint that a letter, asking for my resignation, is
on the way now."

"Why--why--why?" Mr. Murphy stuttered, "did you send him the picture of
Methuselah himself? Heaven's sake, skipper, there's a happy medium, you
know. I meant for you to pick yourself out a man of about fifty-five,
and here you've slipped him a patriarch of ninety. Sarcasm! I should say
so."

They stared at each other a few seconds; then Mr. Murphy had an equally
disturbing inspiration.

"By Neptune!" he sug