You bet! If
I'm not here tomorrow leave the money with Skinner."

"Mr. Skinner is the general manager, isn't he?"

"Yes, and a mighty clever one, too. Don't you monkey with Skinner, young
man. He doesn't like you and he doesn't bluff worth a cent; and if you
ever have a run-in with him while I'm away and he fires you--well, I
guess I'd have to stand by Skinner, Matt. I can't afford to lose him.
Cold-blooded dog--no sense of humor; but honest--a pig for work, and
capable."

"I'll be very careful, sir," Matt assured him. "Thank you for the
vacation, the promised job, and the chance to invest my thousand dollars
at eight per cent. And, now that my affairs are out of the way, let's
talk about yours. I think I can get you a four-year charter for your
steamer Lion--"

"Matt," said Cappy Ricks impressively, "if you can get that brute of a
boat off my hands for four years, and at a figure that will pay me
ten per cent. on her cost price, I'll tell you what--I'll pay you a
commission."

"I don't want any commission, sir, for working for the interests of my
employer. What do you reckon it costs a day to operate the Lion?"

Cappy drew a scratch pad toward him and commenced to figure.

"She'll burn a hundred and seventy barrels of crude oil a day, at
sixty-five cents a barrel. That's about a hundred and ten dollars. Her
wages will average seventy-five dollars a day; it costs twenty dollars a
day to feed her crew; incidentals, say twenty dollars a day;
insurance, say, four dollars a day; wireless, three and a half dollars;
depreciation, say, two dollars and seventy-five cents a day; total in
round figures two hundred and thirty-five dollars a day. I ought to get
four hundred dollars a day for her; but in a pinch like the present I'd
be glad to get her off my hands at three hundred and fifty dollars. But,
no matter what the price may be, Matt, I'm afraid we can't charter her."

"Why?"

"Because the Black Butte Lumber Company owns her sister, the Unicorn;
she's a burden on their back, as the Lion is on mine, there's war to the
finish between Hudner, the Black Butte manager, and myself, and he'll
get the business. He's a dog, Matt--always cutting prices below the
profit point and raising hob in the market. Infernal marplot! He stole
the best stenographer in the United States from me here about three
years ago."

"Where is Hudner's office?" Matt queried.

"In this building--sixth floor." Matt rose and started for the door.