subject under heaven except ships and shipowners.

CHAPTER XXII. FACE TO FACE

In his private office Cappy Ricks sat on his spine, with his old legs on
his desk and his head sunk forward on his breast. His eyes were closed;
to the casual observer he would have appeared to be dozing. Any one of
his employees, however, would have known Cappy was merely thinking. It
was his habit to close his eyes and sit very still whenever he faced a
tussle with a tough proposition.

Presently an unmistakably feminine kiss, surreptitiously delivered,
roused Cappy from his meditations. He opened his eyes and beheld his
daughter Florence, a radiant debutante of twenty, and the sole prop of
her eccentric parent's declining years.

"Daddy dear," she announced, "there's something wrong with my bank
account. I've just come from the Marine National Bank and they wouldn't
cash my check."

"Of course not," Cappy replied, beaming affectionately. "They telephoned
about five minutes ago that you're into the red again; so I've
instructed Skinner to deposit five thousand to your credit."

"Oh, but I want ten thousand!" she protested.

"Can't have it, Florry!" he declared. "The old limousine will have to
do. Go slow, my dear--go slow! Why, they're offering random cargoes
freely along the street for nine dollars. Logs cost six dollars, with a
dollar and a half to manufacture--that's seven and a half; and three and
a half water freight added--that's eleven dollars. Eleven-dollar lumber
selling for nine dollars, and no business at that! I haven't had a
vessel dividend in six months--"

Mr. Skinner entered.

"Mr. Ricks," he announced, "Captain Peasley, late of the Retriever, is
in the outer office. Shall I tell him to wait?"

"No. Haven't we been itching to see each other the past eighteen months?
Show him in immediately, Skinner." Cappy turned to his daughter. "I want
to show you something my dear," he said; "something you're not likely
to meet very often in your set--and that's a he-man. Do you remember
hearing me tell the story of the mate that thrashed the big Swede
skipper I sent to Cape Town to thrash him and bring the vessel home?"

"Do you mean the captain that never writes letters?"

"That's the man. The fellow I've been having so much fun with--the Nervy
Matt that tried to hornswoggle me with my own photograph. Passed it
off as his own, Florry! He hails from my old home town, and he's a mere
boy--Come in!"

The door opened t