Cappy Ricks Retires

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[Illustration: But, in time, Cappy would find her a rich husband]

Cappy Ricks Retires

_But that doesn't keep him from coming back stronger than ever_

_By_ Peter B. Kyne

THE ILLUSTRATIONS

But, in time, Cappy would find her a rich husband

_(Excerpt from the log of Capt. Matt Peasley:)_ "I am alone
on the ship--all the rest are now dead--"

He always shouted when telephoning

"Two million dollars!" cried J. Augustus Redell

CAPPY RICKS RETIRES

CHAPTER I

If you have read previous tales of the Blue Star Navigation Company
and the various brisk individuals connected therewith, you will
recall one Michael J. Murphy, who first came to the attention
of Cappy Ricks at the time he, the said Murphy, was chief kicker
of the barkentine _Retriever_ under Captain Matt Peasley.
Subsequently, when Matt Peasley presented in his person indubitable
evidence of the wisdom of the old saw that you cannot keep a
good man down, Michael J. became skipper of the _Retriever_.
This berth he continued to occupy with pleasure and profit to all
concerned, until a small financial tidal wave, which began with Matt
Peasley's purchase, at a ridiculously low figure, of the Oriental
Steamship Company's huge freighter, _Narcissus_, swept the cunning
Matthew into the presidency of the Blue Star Navigation Company;
whereupon Matt designed to take Murphy out of the _Retriever_
and have him try his hand in steam as master of the _Narcissus_.

The same financial tidal wave had swept Cappy Ricks out of the
presidency of the Blue Star Navigation Company--presumably far
up the beach to a place in the sun, where he was to bask for the
remainder of his old age as president emeritus of all his companies.
However, if there was one thing about Cappy you could depend
upon absolutely it was the consistency of his inconsistency. For,
having announced his retirement, his very next move was to bewail his
inability to retire. He insisted upon clinging to the business like a
barnacle to a ship, and was always very much in evidence whenever any
deal of the slightest importance was about to be consummated. Indeed,
he was never so thoroughly in command as when, his first burst of
enthusiasm anent the acquisition of the _Narcissus_ at fifty per cent.
of her value having passed, he discovered that his son-in-law planned
to order Mike Murphy off the quarter-deck of the _Retriever_ onto the
bridge of the _Narcissus_, while an unknown answering to the name of
Terence Reardon had been selected for her chief engineer.

Cappy listened to Matt Peasley's announcement; then with a
propitiatory "Ahem! Hum! Harump-h-h-h!" he hitched himself forward in
his chair and gazed at Matt over the rims of his spectacles.

"Tell me, Matt," he demanded presently, "who is this man Reardon?
I do not recall such an engineer in our employ--and I thought I
knew them all."

"He is not in our employ, sir. He has been chief engineer of the
_Arab_ for the past eight years, and prior to that he was chief
of the _Narcissus_. It was Reardon who told me what ailed her.
She's a hog on coal, and the Oriental steamship people used to nag
him about the fuel bills. Their port engineer didn't agree with
Reardon as to what was wrong with her, so he left. He assures me
that if her condensers are retubed she'll burn from seven to ten
tons of coal less per day."

"Hum! So you're going to give him the job for telling you something
our own port engineer would have told us after an examination."

"No, sir, I'm going to give him the job because he has earned
it. He gave me some very valuable information about the wretched
condition of her electric-light plant and a crack, cunningly
concealed, in the after web of her crank shaft--"

"Oh, by thunder," piped Cappy, "that's worth knowing! Ship a new
crank shaft, Matt, and save the Blue Star a salvage bill sooner or
later."

"All that inside information will not only save us money in
the future," Matt continued, "but it enabled me to drive a closer
bargain when dealing with MacCandless, of the Oriental Steamship
Company. Consequently Terence Reardon gets the job. He's only making
a hundred and fifty dollars a month in the _Arab_, and as he
is a rattling good man--I've looked him up, sir--I've promised him
a hundred and seventy-five a month in the _Narcissus_."

"Oh, you've already promised him the job, eh? Mistake, Matt,
serious mistake. You say you looked him up, but I'll bet you a new
hat there is one thing about him that you failed to investigate,
and that is: What kind of Irish is he?"

"Why, regular Irish, of course--mighty good Irish, I should say.
Keen, observing, not too talkative, a hard worker, temperate in
his habits and a crackajack engineer to boot."

Cappy settled back wearily in his chair and favored his youthful
partner with a glance of tolerant amusement.

"Matt," he announced, "those are the qualifications we look for
in an engineer, and it's been my experience that the Irish and the
Scotch make the best marine engineers in the world. But when you've
been in the shipping game as long as I have, young man, you'll
know better than to pick two Irishmen as departmental chiefs in the
same ship! I did it--once. There was a red-headed scoundrel named
Dennis O'Leary who went from A.B. to master in the _Florence
Ricks_. That fellow was a bulldog. He made up his mind he was
going to be master of the _Florence_ and I couldn't stop him.
Good man--damned good! And there was a black Irishman, John Rooney,
in the _Amelia Ricks_. Had ambitions just like O'Leary.
He went from oiler to first assistant in the _Amelia_. Fine
man--damned fine! So fine, in fact, that when the chief of the
_Florence_ died I shifted Rooney to her immediately. And what
was the result? Why, riot, of course. Matt, the Irish will fight
anybody and anything, but they'll fight quicker, with less excuse
and greater delight, among themselves, than any other nationality!
The _Florence Ricks_ carried a million feet of lumber, but
she wasn't big enough for Rooney and O'Leary, so I fired them both,
not being desirous of playing favorites. Naturally, each blamed
the other for the loss of his job, and without a word having been
spoken they went out on the dock and fought the bloodiest draw I
have ever seen on the San Francisco waterfront. After they had been
patched up at the Harbor Hospital, both came and cussed me and
told me I was an ingrate, so I hired them both back again, put them
in different ships, slipped each of them a good, cheerful Russian
Finn, and saved funeral expenses. That's what I got, Matt, for not
asking those two what kind of Irish they were. Now, then, sonny,
once more. What kind of Irish is Terence Rearden?"

"Why, I don't know, I tell you. He's just Irish."

Cappy lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if praying for the great
gift of patience.

"Listen to the boy," he demanded of an imaginary bystander.
"He doesn't know! Well, stick your head down over his engine-room
grating some day, sing The Boyne Wather--and find out! Now, then,
do you happen to know what kind of Irish Mike Murphy is? You ought
to. You were shipmates with him in the _Retriever_ long enough."

"Oh, Mike's from Galway. He goes to mass on Sunday when he can."

"Hum! If he's from Galway, where did he leave his brogue? He runs
to the broad _a_ like an Englishman."

"That's easily explained. Mike left his brogue in Galway. He came
to this country when he was six years old and was raised in Boston.
That's where he picked up his broad _a_."

"That doesn't help a bit, Matt. He's Irish just the same, and what
a Yankee like you don't know about the Irish would fill a book. You
know, Matt, there are a few rare white men that can handle Chinamen
successfully; now and then you'll run across one that can handle
niggers; but I have never yet met anybody who could figure the
mental angles of the Irish except an Irishman. There's something
in an Irishman that drives him into the bandwagon. He's got to be
the boss, and if he can't be the boss he'll sit round and criticize.
But if I want a man to handle Chinamen, or niggers, or Japs, or
Bulgarians I'll advertise for an Irishman and take the first one
that shows up. A young man like you, Matt, shouldn't monkey with
these people. They're a wonderful race and very much misunderstood,
and if you don't start 'em right on the job you'll always be in
trouble. Now, Matt, I've always done the hiring and firing for
the Blue Star Navigation Company, and as a result I've had blamed
little of it to do, considering the size of our fleet; consequently
I'll just give these two Harps the Double-O. Have Murphy and Reardon
at the office at nine o'clock to-morrow morning and I'll read them
the riot act before turning them to."

CHAPTER II

Cappy Ricks was at his office at eight-fifty the following morning. At
eight-fifty-two Mr. Terence Reardon, plainly uncomfortable in a
ready-made blue-serge Sunday suit purchased on the Embarcadero for
twenty-five dollars, came into the office. He was wearing a celluloid
collar, and a quite noticeable rattle as he shook hands with Cappy
Ricks betrayed the fact that he also was wearing celluloid cuffs; for,
notwithstanding the fact that he bathed twice a day, Mr. Reardon's
Hibernian hide contained much of perspiration, coal dust, metal grit
and lubricating oil, and such substances can always be washed off
celluloid collars and cuffs. To his credit be it known that Terence
Reardon knew his haberdashery was not _au fait_, for his wife never
failed to remind him of it; but unfortunately he was the possessor of
a pair of grimy hands that nothing on earth could ever make clean, and
even when he washed them in benzine they always left black thumb
prints on a linen collar during the process of adjustment. He had long
since surrendered to his fate.

At eight-fifty-four Mike Murphy arrived. Murphy was edging up into
the forties, but still he was young enough at heart to take a keen
interest in his personal appearance, and a tailor who belonged to
Michael's council of the Knights of Columbus had decked him out in
a suit of English tweeds of the latest cut and in most excellent
taste.

"Good morning, captain," Cappy Ricks greeted him. "Ahead of time
as usual. Meet Mr. Terence Reardon, late chief of the _Arab_.
He is to be a shipmate of yours--chief of the _Narcissus_,
you know.

"Mr. Reardon, shake hands with Captain Mike Murphy. Captain Murphy
has been in our employ a number of years as master of sail. The
_Narcissus_ will be his first command in steam."

"Terence Reardon, eh?" echoed Mike Murphy pleasantly. "That sounds
like a good name. Glad to meet you, chief. What part of the old
country are you from? The West?"

The wish was father to the thought, since Mike was from the West
himself.

"I'm from the Nort'--from Belfast," Mr. Reardon replied in a deep
Kerry brogue, and extended a grimy paw upon the finger of which Mike
Murphy observed a gold ring that proclaimed Mr. Terence Reardon--an
Irishman, presumably a Catholic--one who had risen to the third
degree in Freemasonry.

Cappy Ricks saw that ring also, and started visibly. A Knight
Templar himself, Terence Reardon was the last person on earth in
whom he expected to find a brother Mason. He glanced at Mike Murphy
and saw that the skipper was looking, not at Mr. Reardon, but at
the Masonic emblem.

"Sit down, chief," Cappy hastened to interrupt. "Have a chair,
captain. Mr. Reardon, my son-in-law, Captain Peasley here, tells
me you were chief of the _Narcissus_ when she was on the China
run for the Oriental Steamship Company."

Mr. Reardon sat down heavily, set his derby hat on the floor beside
him and replied briefly: "I was."

Captain Murphy excused himself and drew Matt Peasley out of the
room. "God knows," he whispered hoarsely, "religion should never
enter into the working of a ship, and I suppose I'll have to get
along with that fellow; but did you mark the Masonic ring on the
paw of the Far-Down? And on the right hand, too! The jackass don't
know enough to wear it on his left hand."

"Why, what's wrong about being a Mason?" Matt protested. "Cappy's
a Mason and so am I."

"Nothing wrong about it--with you and Cappy Ricks. That's your
privilege. You're Protestants."

"Well, maybe the chief's a Protestant, too," Matt suggested, but
Mike Murphy silenced him with a sardonic smile.

"With that name?" he queried, and laughed the brief, mirthless
laugh of the man who knows. "And he says he's from Belfast! Man,
I could cut that Kerry brogue with a belaying pin."

"Why, Mike," Matt interrupted, "I never before suspected you were
intolerant of a shipmate's private convictions. I must say this
attitude of yours is disturbing."

"Why, I'm not a bigot," Murphy protested virtuously. "Who told
you that?"

"Why, you're a Catholic, and you resent Reardon because he's a
Protestant."

"Not a bit of it. You're a Protestant, and don't I love you like
a brother?"

Matt thought he saw the light. "Oh, I see," he replied. "It's
because Reardon is an Irish Protestant."

"Almost--but not quite. God knows I hate the Orangemen for what
they did to me and mine, but at least they've been Protestant since
the time of Henry VIII. But the lad inside there has no business
to be a Protestant. The Lord intended him for a Catholic--and he
knows it. He's a renegade. I don't blame you for being a Protestant,
Matt. It's none of my business."

Matt Peasley had plumbed the mystery at last. He had been reading
a good deal in the daily papers about Home Rule for Ireland,
the Irish Nationalists, the Ulster Volunteers, the Unionists, and
so on, and in a vague way he had always understood that religious
differences were at the bottom of it all. He realized now that it
was something deeper than that--a relic of injustice and oppression;
a hostility that had come to Mike Murphy as a heritage from his
forbears--something he had imbibed at his mother's breast and was,
for purposes of battle, a more vital issue than the interminable
argument about the only safe road to heaven.

"I see," Matt murmured. "Reardon, being Irish, has violated the
national code of the Irish--"

"You've said it, Matt. They're Tories at heart, every mother's son
of them."

"What do you mean--Tories?"

"That they're for England, of course."

"Well, I don't blame them. So am I. Aren't you, Mike?"

"May God forgive you," Mike Murphy answered piously. "I am not.
I'm for their enemies. I'm for anything that's against England.
Ireland is not a colony. She's a nation. Man, man, you don't
understand. Only an Irishman can, and he gets it at his mother's or
his grandmother's knee--the word-of-mouth history of his people,
the history that isn't in the books! Do you think I can forget? Do
you think I want to forget?"

"No," Matt Peasley replied quietly; "I think you'll have to forget--
in so far as Terence Reardon is concerned. This is the land of the
free and the home of the brave, and even when you're outside the
three-mile limit I want you to remember, Mike, that the good ship
_Narcissus_ is under the American flag. The _Narcissus_ needs all her
space for cargo, Mike. There is no room aboard her for a feud. Don't
ever poke your nose into Terence Reardon's engine-room except on his
invitation or for the purpose of locating a leak. Treat him with
courtesy and do not discuss politics or religion when you meet him at
table, which will be about the only opportunity you two will have to
discuss anything; and if Reardon wants to talk religion or politics
you change your feeding time and avoid meeting him. I've taken you out
of the old _Retriever,_ Mike, where you've been earning a hundred and
twenty-five dollars a month, to put you in the _Narcissus_ at two
hundred and fifty. That is conclusive evidence that I'm for you. But
Terence Reardon is a crackajack chief engineer, and I want you to
remember that the Blue Star Navigation Company needs him in its
business quite as much as it needs Michael J. Murphy, and if you two
get scrapping I'm not going to take the trouble to investigate and
place the blame. I'll just call you both up on the carpet and make you
draw straws to see who quits."

"Fair enough," replied the honest Murphy. "If I can't be good I'll
be as good as I can."

At that very instant Cappy Ricks was just discovering what kind of
Irish Mr. Terence Reardon was.

The most innocent remark brought him the information he sought.

"Captain Murphy, whom you have just met, is to be master of the
_Narcissus,_ chief," he explained. "He's a splendid fellow
personally and a most capable navigator, and like you he's Irish.
I'm sure you'll get along famously together."

Cappy tried to smile away his apprehension, for a still small voice
whispered to him and questioned the right of Terence Reardon to
call him brother.

Mr. Reardon's sole reply to this optimistic prophecy was a
noncommittal grunt, accompanied by a slight outthrust and uplift of
the chin, a pursing of the lips and the ghost of a sardonic little
smile. Only an Irishman can get the right tempo to that grunt--and the
tempo is everything. In the case of Terence Reardon it said
distinctly: "I hope you're right, sir, but privately I have my
doubts." However, not satisfied with pantomime, Mr. Reardon went a
trifle farther--for reasons best known to himself. He laved the corner
of his mouth with the tip of a tobacco-stained tongue and said
presently: "I can't say, Misther Ricks, that I quite like the cut av
that fella's jib."

That was the Irish of it. A representative of any other race on
earth would have employed the third person singular when referring
to the absent Murphy; only an Irishman would have said "that fella,"
and only a certain kind of Irishman could have managed to inject
into such simple words such a note of scorn supernal. Cappy Ricks
got the message--just like that.

"Then stay off his bridge, Reardon," he warned the chief. "Your
job is in the engine-room, so even if you and Captain Murphy do
not like each other, there will be no excuse for friction. The only
communication you need have with him is through the engine-room
telegraph."

"Then, sor," Terence Reardon replied respectfully, "I'll take it
kindly av you to tell him to keep out av me engine-room. I'll have
no skipper buttin' in on me, tellin' me how to run me engines an'
askin' me why in this an' that I don't go aisy on the coal. Faith,
I've had thim do it--the wanst--an' the wanst only. Begorra, I'd
have brained thim wit' a monkey wrench if they tried it a second
time."

"On the other hand," Cappy remarked, "I've had to fire more than
one chief engineer who couldn't cure himself of a habit of coming
up on the bridge when the vessel got to port--to tell the skipper
how to berth his ship against a strong flood tide. I suppose
that while we have steamships the skippers will always wonder how
the vessel can possibly make steerage way, considering the chief
engineers, while the chiefs will never cease marvelling that such
fine ships should be entrusted to a lot of Johnny Know-Nothings.
However, Reardon, I might as well tell you that the Blue Star
Navigation Company plays no favorites. When the chief and the
skipper begin to interfere with the dividends, they look overside
some bright day and see Alden P. Ricks waiting for them on the cap
of the wharf. And when the ship is alongside, the said Ricks comes
aboard with five bones in his pocket, and the said skipper and
the said chief are invited into the dining saloon to roll the said
bones--one flop and high man out. Yes, sir. Out! Out of the ship
and out of the Blue Star employ--for ever."

"I hear you, sor. I hearrd you the first time," Terence Reardon
replied complacently and reached for his pipe. "All I ask from you
is a square deal. I'll have it from the captain wit'out the askin'."

Thus the Reardon breathing his defiance.

"I'm glad we understand each other, chief. Just avoid arguments,
political or religious, and treat the skipper with courtesy. Then
you'll get along all right. Now with reference to your salary.
The union scale is one hundred and fifty dollars a month--"

"Beggin' yer pardon for the intherruption, sor, but the young man
promised me a hundhred an' siventy-five."

"That was before the Blue Star Navigation Company took over the
young man and his ship _Narcissus._ Hereafter you'll deal with
the old man in such matters. I'm going to give you two hundred
a month, Reardon, and you are to keep the _Narcissus_ out of
the shop. Hear me, chief--out of the shop."

"No man can ordher me to do me djooty," said Terence Reardon
simply. "Tell the fine gintleman on the bridge to keep her out av
the kelp, an' faith, she'll shtay out av the shop. Thank you kindly,
sor. When do I go to wurrk?"

"Your pay started this morning. The _Narcissus_ goes on Christy's
ways in Oakland Harbor at the tip of the flood this afternoon. Get
on the ship and stay on her. It's a day-and-night rush job to get
her in commission, and you'll be paid time and a half while she's
repairing. Good-day and good luck to you, chief. Come in and see
me whenever you get to port." And Cappy Ricks, most democratic of
men, extended his hand to his newest employee. Terence Reardon took
it in his huge paw that would never be clean any more, and held it
for a moment, the while he looked fearlessly into Cappy's eyes.

"'Tis a proud man I am to wurrk for you, sor," he said simply.
"Tip-top serrvice for tip-top pay, an' by the Great Gun av Athlone,
you'll get it from me, sor. If ever the ship is lost 'twill be no
fault of mine."

Mr. Reardon's manner, as he thus calmly exculpated himself from
the penalty for future disaster, indicated quite clearly that Cappy
Ricks, in such a contingency, might look to the man higher up--on
the bridge, for instance.

When Terence Reardon had departed Cappy Ricks called Mike Murphy
into the room.

"Now, captain," he began, "there are a few things I want to tell
you. This man Reardon is a fine, loyal fellow, but he's touchy--"

"I know all about him," Murphy interrupted with a slight emphasis
on the pronoun. Unlike Mr. Reardon he employed the third person
singular and did not say "that fella," for he had been raised in
the United States of America.

"I have already given the captain his instructions," Matt Peasley
announced. "He understands the situation perfectly and will conduct
himself accordingly."

CHAPTER III

A small army of men swarmed over, under and through the huge
_Narcissus_ for the next three weeks, and the hearts of Cappy
Ricks and Matt Peasley were like to burst with pride as they stood
on the bridge with Captain Mike Murphy, while he ran the vessel
over the measured course to test her speed, and swung her in the
bay while adjusting her compass. She was as beautiful as money and
paint could make her, and when Terence Reardon, in calm disregard
of orders, came up on the bridge to announce his unbounded faith
in the rejuvenated condensers and to predict a modest coal bill
for the future, Mike Murphy so far forgot himself as to order the
steward to bring up a bottle of something and begged Mr. Reardon
to join him in three fingers of nepenthe to celebrate the occasion.

"T'ank you, sor, but I never dhrink--on djooty," Mr. Reardon retorted
with chill politeness, "nor," he added, "wit' me immejiate superiors."

A superficial analysis of this remark will convince the most sceptical
that Mr. Reardon, with true Hibernian adroitness, had managed to
convey an insult without seeming to convey it.

"Isn't that a pity!" the skipper replied. "We'll excuse you to
attend to your duty, Mr. Reardon;" and he bowed the chief toward the
companion leading to the boat deck. The latter departed, furious,
with an uncomfortable feeling of having been out-generaled; and
once a good Irishman and true has undergone that humiliation it is
a safe bet that the Dove of Peace has lost her tail feathers.

"That's an unmannerly chief engineer," Mike Murphy announced
blandly, "but for all that he's not without his good points. He'll
not waste money in his department."

"A virtue which I trust you will imitate in yours, captain," Cappy
Ricks snapped dryly. "Is Reardon working short-handed?"

"Only while we're loading, when he'll need just enough men to keep
steam up in the winches. When we go to sea, however, he'll have a
full crew, but the fun of it is they'll be non-union men with the
exception of the engineers and officers. The engineers will all
belong to the Marine Engineers' Association and the mates to Harbor
15, Masters' and Pilots' Association."

"He'll do nothing of the sort," Matt Peasley declared quietly. "We
have union crews in all our other steamers, and the unions will
declare a strike on us if we put non-union men in the _Narcissus_."

"Of course--if they find out. But they'll not. Besides, we're going
to the Atlantic Coast, so why should we bring a high-priced crew
into a low-priced market, Mr. Ricks? Leave it to me, sir. I'll load
the ship with longshoremen entirely, and we'll sail with the crew of
that German liner that came a few days ago to intern in Richardson's
Bay until the European war is over."

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