our tail," Cappy answered
pertly. "Slap on your libels. We'll lift 'em all, and to-morrow we'll
expect eighteen thousand dollars from you, or I'm afraid, Matthew, my
boy, you're going to lose that ship with her cargo of steel rails, and
we'll collect the freight."

"Again you lose. You'll have to make a formal written demand on me for
the money before you cancel the charter; and when you do I'll hand you a
certified check for eighteen thousand dollars. Don't think for a minute
that I'm a pauper, Mr. Ricks; because I'm not. When a fellow freights
one cargo to Panama and another back, and it doesn't cost him a blamed
cent to stow the first cargo and cheap Jamaica nigger labor to stow
the second, and the cost of operating the ship for the round trip is
absolutely nil--I tell you, sir, there's money in it."

Cappy Ricks' eyes blazed, but he controlled his temper and made one
final appeal.

"Matt," he said plaintively, "you infernal young cut-up, quit kidding
the old man! Don't tell me that a Peasley, of Thomaston, Maine, would
take advantage of certain adventitious circumstances and the legal
loopholes provided by our outrageous maritime laws--"

"To swindle the Blue Star Navigation Company!" Mr. Skinner cut in.

"Swindle is an ugly word, Mr. Skinner. Please do not use it again to
describe my legitimate business--and don't ask any sympathy of me. You
two are old enough and experienced enough in the shipping game to spin
your own tops. You didn't give me any the best of it; you crowded my
hand and joggled my elbow, and it would have been the signal for a half
holiday in the office if I had gone broke."

"But after all Mr. Ricks has done for you--"

"He always had value received, and I asked no favors of him--and
received none."

"But surely, my dear Matt," Skinner purred, for the first time calling
his ancient enemy by his Christian name--"surely you're jesting with
us."

"Skinner, old horse, I was never more serious in my life. Mr. Alden P.
Ricks is my ideal of a perfect business man; and just before I left for
Panama he informed me--rather coldly, I thought--that he never mixed
sentiment with business. Moreover, he advised me not to do it either.
To surrender to him now would mean the fracturing, for the first time
in history, of a slogan that has been in the Peasley tribe for
generations."

"What's that?" Cappy queried with shaking voice.

"Pay your way and take your beating like a sport, sir," Matt shot at