Cappy Ricks Part 28

He didn't. He just wired Mr. Skinner as follows:

Any time you want to commit suicide I will furnish a pistol.

About the beginning of March Mr. Skinner opened his cold heart long enough to let in a little human love and get married, and shortly thereafter he found it necessary to make a business trip to the redwood mill of the Ricks Lumber and Logging Company on Humboldt Bay. He went up on the regular P. C. pa.s.senger boat and took his bride with him, and while he was at the mill Matt Peasley came nosing in with the Quickstep and loaded a cargo of redwood lumber. He finished loading on the same day that Mr. Skinner discovered he had no further excuse for remaining away from the office, in consequence of which the latter decided to return to San Francisco on the Quickstep. This for several very good reasons: The food on the Quickstep was better than the food on the regular liner, the accommodations were fully as good, the vessel was loaded deeply and would ride steadily--and Mr. Skinner and his bride would travel without charge.

The sight of the Skinners coming aboard was not a pleasing one to Matt Peasley. He did not like Mr. Skinner well enough to care to eat at the same table with him, and he bethought him now of all the mean, nagging complaints of the past six months. In particular he recalled Mr.

Skinner's instructions to him anent the carrying of dead-head pa.s.sengers--and suddenly he had a brilliant idea. He sent for his wireless operator and ordered him to send this message:

Blue Star Navigation Company, San Francisco, Cal.

Please accept my resignation as master of your steamer Quickstep, said resignation to take effect immediately upon my arrival in San Francisco.

Kindly have somebody on hand to relieve me.

Matthew Peasley.

Matt had just remembered that his six months in the Quickstep were up.

His next move was to call on the steward.

"Go into Stateroom 7," he ordered, "and collect fifteen dollars from that man and woman in there. They came aboard without tickets."

Two minutes later the steward was back with word that the pa.s.sengers in question were dead-heads, being none other than the manager of the Blue Star Navigation Company and his wife.

"Steward, you go back and tell that man Skinner that Captain Peasley never carries any dead-heads on the Quickstep. Tell him that when Captain Peasley wants to carry a guest he pays the guest's pa.s.sage out of his own pocket."

"But he'll fire me, sir."

"Do as I order; he will not fire you. I'm the only man that has that privilege, and I'll exercise it if you don't obey me."

Two more minutes elapsed; then Mr. Skinner presented himself at the captain's stateroom.

"Peasley," he said sharply, "what nonsense is this?"

"No dead-heads on this s.h.i.+p, Mr. Skinner. Your own orders, sir. Fifteen dollars, if you please. You're not my guests."

"Of course," said Mr. Skinner, "I shall do nothing of the sort."

"Then get off the s.h.i.+p."

"Sir, are you crazy?"

"No, I am not; I'm just disgusted with you. Fifteen dollars here and now before I cast off the lines, or I'll run you off the s.h.i.+p. Don't tempt me, Skinner. If I ever lay violent hands on you there'll be work for a doctor."

Mr. Skinner was speechless, but he laid fifteen dollars on the captain's desk and returned to his stateroom. His silence was ominous. Five minutes later the Quickstep backed out from the mill wharf and headed down the bay. As she plowed along, the rain commenced falling and a stiff southeast breeze warned Matt that he was in for a wet crossing.

He was further convinced of this when the bar tug Ranger met him a mile inside the entrance. She steamed alongside, and, as she pa.s.sed, her captain hailed Matt.

"Don't try to cross out, Peasley," he shouted. "The bar is breaking."

"The Quickstep doesn't mind it," Matt answered.

"Don't try it, I tell you. I've been twenty years on Humboldt Bar and I know it, Peasley. I've never seen it so bad as it is this minute."

"Oh, we'll cross out without any fuss," Matt called back cheerfully, and rang for full speed ahead. They were down at the entrance, and the Quickstep had just lifted to the dead water from the first big green roller, when Mr. Skinner came up and touched Matt Peasley on the arm.

"Well, sir?" Matt demanded irritably.

"Drop anchor inside, captain. That bar is too rough to attempt to cross out."

"Oh, nonsense!" Matt declared.

"But didn't you hear what that tug-boat captain said? He said it was breaking worse than he had known it for twenty years."

"Bah! What does he know about it?"

"I don't care what he knows, Captain Peasley; I order you not to attempt to cross out. My wife is aboard and I'll take no chances. Come to anchor and wait for the bar to settle."

"You order me?" Matt sneered. "Who in blazes are you to give orders on my s.h.i.+p? I'm at sea, you understand, and you have nothing to say. You'll give your orders and I'll obey them when I'm at the dock, but crossing Humboldt Bar, I'm the master of ceremonies. I can't turn back now. I'd lose my rudder as I came about. Get out. Who invited you up here?"

"How dare you, sir?" Mr. Skinner cried furiously. "Man, have you lost your mind? Obey me, I say."

Matt Peasley laughed blithely. "You miserable, cold-blooded, nagging old woman," he said, and took Mr. Skinner by the nape and shook him. "I've prayed for this day. Do you remember the time you wired me at Coos Bay that my timidity had lost you some pa.s.senger traffic? You impugned my courage then, you whelp, and now I'm going to give you a sample of it.

All winter long you've been hounding me, trying to make me take chances crossing this bar, just so the vessel might pick up a couple of hundred dollars extra in pa.s.senger money. It didn't matter to you what risks other men's wives ran when you were snug in your office, did it? You never thought of the pa.s.sengers I had aboard, or the lives of my crew or me, did you? You wanted me to cut corners and risk human lives for the sake of your reputation as an efficient manager, you--" And he shook Mr.

Skinner until the manager's teeth rattled. "Now you're aboard yourself with your blus.h.i.+ng bride, and how do you like it, eh? How do you like it? You know all about navigation, don't you? Well, you and your wife are the only pa.s.sengers this trip, and I'm going to give you a taste of salt water you'll remember till your dying day," and with a shove he sent Mr. Skinner flying aft until he collided with the funnel.

"You're fired!" Skinner screamed, beside himself with fear and rage. But Matt Peasley was devoting all of his attention to the Quickstep now; and it was well that he did. The vessel rose on the crest of a green comber thirty feet high, and plunged with the speed of an express elevator into the valley between that wave and the next.

A tremendous sea boiled in over the knight heads and swept aft, burying the Quickstep until nothing showed but her upper works. But she was a st.u.r.dy craft and came up from under it, rode the succeeding three seas and was comparatively free of water when she s.h.i.+pped the next one. The crest of it came in along the little promenade deck, carrying away the companion that led to the bridge, staving in the doors and windows of all the staterooms on the port side and carrying away the rails and stanchions. There was two feet of water in Stateroom 7, where Mrs.

Skinner clung to her husband, screaming hysterically.

But despite the awful buffeting she was receiving the Quickstep never faltered. On she plowed, riding the green billows like a gull, and s.h.i.+pping a sea only occasionally. The deckload, double-lashed, held, although the deckhouse groaned and twisted until Matt Peasley regretted the impulse that had impelled him to do this foolish thing for the sake of satisfying a grudge.

"She'll make it, sir," the man at the wheel called up; but Matt's face was a little white and serious as he tried to smile back.

Another sea came ramping aboard and s.n.a.t.c.hed the port lifeboat out of the davits, smashed in the door of the dining saloon and flooded it, gutted the galley, and drove the cook and the steward to the protection of the engine room. The chief called up through the speaking tube:

"How's the boss making it, captain?"

"It's a wet pa.s.sage for him, chief. I can hear his wife scream every time we s.h.i.+p one."

"Serves her right for marrying the pest," the chief growled, and turned away.

They crossed out, but at a cost that made Matt Peasley shudder, when he left the bridge in charge of the mate and went below to take stock of the damage. A new boat and four days' work for a carpenter gang--perhaps eighteen hundred dollars' worth of damage, not counting the demurrage!

It was a big price to pay for one brief moment of triumph, but Matt Peasley felt that it would have been cheap at twice the money. He pa.s.sed round on the starboard side of the vessel and found Mr. Skinner wet to the skin and s.h.i.+vering.

"We're over," Matt announced cheerfully. "How did you like the going?"

"You villain!" Skinner cried pa.s.sionately. "You'll never command another s.h.i.+p in the Blue Star fleet, I'll promise you that."

"I know it, Skinner. But if I were you I'd go down in the engine room and dry out while the cook and the steward straighten things round."