Cappy Ricks was in a fine rage. A situation, unique in his forty years of experience as a lumber and shipping magnate, was confronting him, with the prospects exceedingly bright for Cappy playing a role analogous to that of the simpleton who holds the sack on a snipe-hunting expedition. He summoned Mr. Skinner into his private office, and glared at the latter over the rims of his spectacles. “Skinner,” he said solemnly, “there's the very devil to pay.”

Mr. Skinner arched his eyebrows and inclined a respectful ear. Cappy continued:

“It's about the Hermosa. Skinner, that dog-barking navigator you put in that schooner while I was on my vacation has balled us up for fair. I'll be the laughing-stock of the street.”

Parenthetically it may be stated that the Blue Star Navigation Company's schooner, Hermosa, had cleared from Astoria for Valparaiso with a cargo of railroad ties, and, for some reason which the captain could not explain but which Cappy Ricks could, the unfortunate man had become lost at sea, finally ending his voyage on a reef on one of the Samoan Islands. The Hermosa had been listed as missing and her owners had been on the point of receiving a check for the insurance on the vessel and her cargo when an Australian steamer brought news of her predicament in Samoa. Her captain sent word that she was resting easily and that he would get her off. Subsequently, Cappy learned that his dog-barking skipper had discharged his cargo of railroad ties on barges, in order to lighten the vessel and float her off with the aid of a launch. Unfortunately, however, he discovered a huge hole in her garboard, and before he could patch it an extra high tide lifted the vessel over the reef and sunk her forty fathoms deep in a place where nobody could ever get at her again.

“Yes, sir,” Cappy complained. “I'll be the laughing-stock of the street. Here's a letter from the insurance people, inclosing a check for a total loss on the vessel, but they repudiate payment of the insurance on the cargo.”

“Why?” demanded the amazed Skinner. “They insured those ties for delivery at Callao. They can't get out of it.”

“I'll bet they can,” Cappy shrilled. “I've just called up the Board of Underwriters and they say the cargo hasn't been lost. They say nothing is lost if you know where it is, and the ties are on the beach in Samoa awaiting our pleasure. Skinner, call up our attorneys at once and tell them to enter suit.”

“I was just about to call them up on another matter,” Mr. Skinner replied. “As secretary of the Blue Star Navigation Company I have just been served with a summons in another suit, entered against the Quickstep.”

“What in the fiend's name is the matter with that infernal Quickstep? This is the third suit we've had in two years. Skinner, what is wrong with that steam schooner?”

“She must be hoodooed, Mr. Ricks.”

“Another seaman injured by being hit with a cargo block or having a piece of eight-by-eight drop on his foot, I suppose.”

“Not this time, Mr. Ricks. One Halvor Jacobsen has sued the Quickstep and owners for five thousand dollars for injuries alleged to have been inflicted upon him by the captain.”

“So that Captain Kjellin has been fighting again, eh? Skinner, that man is too handy with his fists, I tell you. He's another one of your favorites, by the way. I only put that fellow in the Quickstep to please you.”

“We haven't a better man in our employ,” Mr. Skinner asserted stoutly. “He carries larger cargoes and makes faster time than any steam-schooner captain in our vessels of similar carrying capacity. He's a dividend producer, Mr. Ricks, and he is very efficient.”

“Don't talk to me of efficiency,” Cappy snarled. “What's the sense rushing the vessel round Robin Hood's barn to make dividends, if we lose them in lawsuits?”

“His vessel didn't lay up during the strike of the Waterfront Federation in 1903,” Skinner challenged. “You bet she didn't! Kjellin rustled up a scab crew and kept the mob off the vessel at the point of a gun. I understand he's a bit short-tempered, but while there are ships with red-blooded men in them, Mr. Ricks, we must expect the men to pull off a couple of rounds with skin gloves every so often.”

Cappy looked over the rims of his spectacles at Mr. Skinner. “Skinner,” he said impressively, “listen to me: This is the last suit that's going to be entered against the Quickstep. Was that man Halvor Jacobsen who is suing us second mate on the Quickstep?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I knew it,” Cappy shrilled triumphantly. “Skinner, with all your efficiency ideas, you fail to see anything remarkable in that fact. Now don't tell me you do, because I know you do not. This is the third suit since Kjellin took charge, and that's proof enough for me that there's something wrong with that big Finn. Those other two suits were for injuries received by men loading cargo in the after hold. The after hold is presided over by the second mate.” Cappy waved his hands. “Huh!” he said. “Simple!”

“I believe I comprehend,” Mr. Skinner admitted. “But what are you going to do about it? We can scarcely discharge Kjellin without a hearing and without proof that he is to blame.”

“What am I going to do about it?” Cappy echoed. “Why, I'm going to send a judge and a jury aboard the Quickstep, try this Finn, Kjellin, and if he's guilty of dereliction of duty I'll bet you a plug hat to one small five-cent bag of smoking tobacco I'll know all about it inside of a week.”

“Do you mean to put a secret-service operative aboard disguised as a deckhand?”

“Huh! Skinner, you distress me. I'm going to put Matt Peasley aboard the Quickstep as second mate, and let Nature take its course.”

“I wouldn't do that if I were you, sir,” Mr. Skinner advised. “That rowdy Peasley and a man like Kjellin will not get along together for one voyage; then Kjellin will fire him, and first thing you know you'll be groping around in the dark again.”

“Oh, I know this Finn is a pet of yours,” Cappy retorted acidly, “but Matt Peasley is a pet of mine. If we put them together in the same ship maybe we'll have one of those skin-glove contests you referred to a minute ago, but between their mutual recriminations you can bet your hopes of Heaven I'll catch a glimpse of the truth and act accordingly. Matt will not tell a lie, Skinner. Remember that.”

“Neither will Kjellin,” Skinner declared with equal warmth.

“Well, I don't know whether he will or not. However, that's beside the question. Where is the Florence Ricks?”

“Sailed from San Pedro at noon yesterday.”

“Where is the Quickstep?”

“Sailed from Eureka to load shingles last night.”

“Good. Wireless the master of the Florence to provide himself with a new second mate. That will give him time to wireless ahead and have one waiting for him when the vessel touches in to discharge passengers from the south. Tell him to inform Peasley he isn't fired, but just transferred. Attend to it, Skinner.”

While Mr. Skinner departed to carry out Cappy's order, the old gentleman called up Harbor 15, Masters' and Pilots' Association, and asked for the secretary.

“Ricks of the Blue Star speaking,” he announced crisply. “Been furnishing many second mates to the Quickstep lately?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Ricks. Kjellin wires for a new second mate quite frequently. They don't seem to stay with him more than a voyage or two. He's quite a driver, you know, Mr. Ricks.”

“I know,” Cappy replied grimly. “The next time he wires in to have a second mate join the ship when he touches in here, you might be good enough to call me up. I have a skookum young second mate in the Florence Ricks that I'm training for a captain, and I want to switch him in on the Humboldt Bay run for the sake of the experience. And, of course, you know how it is with masters—they like to think they're selecting their own mates, and always resent any interference from their owners. And if you do ask them to take a certain mate they're apt to suspect he's a spy from the office, and—well, you understand. I'd prefer to have this lad I have in mind go aboard as if you had sent him.”

“I understand, Mr. Ricks. I'll let you know the first time Kjellin wires in.”