“Well, next Christmas I think we ought to give them each a month's salary.”
“Yes, sir. I think that would be a very delicate thing to do.”
Cappy sighed. Poor Skinner! Victim of the saving habit! Decent devil--didn't mean to be small, but just couldn't help it. A bush-leaguer--Skinner. Never meant for big company--
“Yes, Skinner, my boy. Go on, go on, old horse. Now then, in addition--”
“It seems like the wildest extravagance, Mr. Ricks, but those men have fought for their ship and I--remember, Mr. Ricks, this is only a suggestion--I think it would be a very--er--tactful thing to do to--er--”
“It'll choke him before he gets it out,” Cappy soliloquized. Aloud he said: “Go on, Skinner, my dear boy. Don't be afraid.”
“At a time like this, when freights are so good and vessel property pays so well, it seems to me--that is, if you and Matt have no objection--that we ought to give Mike and Terence a--er--a little piece of the _Narcissus_--the ship--er--they love--say--er--a--ten-thousand-dollar interest--each--”
“God bless you, Skinner! You came through at last, didn't you? The president emeritus agrees with you, Skinner, and it is so ordered.
“Now skip along and wireless the glad news to Mike and Terence. Tell them when they have the coal out to proceed to Rio and load manganese ore.”
In due course Captain Michael J. Murphy and Mr. Terence Reardon came off the dry dock, the sole visible evidence of that unrecorded second naval engagement off the Falkland Islands being a slight list to starboard on the part of the Reardon nose, and a notch in Murphy's right ear. Mr. Skinner had had a local jeweler prepare the presentation watches against the day of the home-coming of the warriors of the Blue Star, and on a Saturday night Cappy gave a banquet to Mike and Terence, and every employee of the Ricks' interests who could possibly attend, was present to do the doughty pair honor and cheer when the awards for valor were duly made by Cappy and congratulatory speeches made by Mr. Skinner and Matt Peasley. It was such a gala occasion that Cappy drank three cocktails, battened down by a glass or two of champagne, and as a result was ill for two days thereafter. When he recovered, he announced sadly and solemnly that he was about to retire--forever; that nothing of a business nature should ever be permitted to drag him back into the harness again. Then he bade all of his employees a touching farewell, packed his golf clubs, and disappeared in the general direction of Southern California. He was away so long that eventually even the skeptical Mr. Skinner commenced to wonder if, perchance, the age of miracles had not yet passed and Cappy had really retired.