at him. He held out the check and tapped
Matt Peasley's signature.

"Get on to that, Skinner, my boy," he said; "get on to that! Matt's gone
into the shipping business, and he's making an humble start with three
little old antiquated schooners, for which he has paid me more than
eight thousand dollars. Now he will go broke!"

"I do not agree with you, Mr. Ricks," Mr. Skinner replied dryly, "for I
notice he didn't forget to stick us four hundred and twelve dollars and
fifty cents for the privilege of selling him those three schooners!
This is the first time I ever heard of anybody's paying the purchaser a
commission!"

"The infernal scoundrel!" Cappy shrilled angrily, for Mr. Skinner's
assertion carried the hint that Cappy had been outgeneraled. "The Yankee
thief!--acting as broker for a company in which he owns all the capital
stock! In business a week and he's made over four hundred dollars
already, neat and nice, and as clean as a hound's tooth! Can you beat
it?"

"It's better than being a port captain for the Blue Star Navigation
Company at three hundred a month," Mr. Skinner suggested wistfully.

He had worked for a salary all his days, and after passing the thirty
mark he had lost the courage to leap into the commercial fray and be his
own man. He wished he might have been endowed at birth with a modicum of
Matt Peasley's courage and reckless disregard of consequences.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. WORKING CAPITAL

It was nearly ten weeks before Cappy Ricks laid eyes on Matt Peasley
again. Inquiry from Florry elicited the information that Matt had gone
to Mexico as skipper of his own schooner, the Harpoon, bound on some
mysterious business.

"He's taken the old Harpoon down there to stick a Mexican--I'll bet a
hat on that!" Cappy reflected. "I'll bet he'll have a tale to tell when
he gets back."

There came a day when Matt, looking healthy and happy, dropped in for a
social call.

"Well, young man," Cappy greeted him, "give an account of yourself. How
do you find business?"

"The finest game in the world," Matt replied heartily. "I had the Ethel
Ricks snaked out of the mud and hauled out on the marine railway, where
I bossed a gang of riggers and sailmakers for a week, getting her gear
in shape while she was having a gas engine and tanks for the distillate
installed. Then I gave her a dab of paint here and there, sweetened her
up, and sold her to Slade, of the Alaska Codfishing Corporation, at a
net profi