Читать книгу Cappy Ricks; Or, the Subjugation of Matt Peasley - Peter B. Kyne - Страница 12

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Matt Peasley said nothing to Mr. Murphy when Cappy Ricks' cryptic cablegram was received. Insofar as Matt was concerned, that cablegram closed the argument, for even had it seemed to demand a reply the master of the Retriever would not—nay could not, have answered, for the controversy had already ruined him financially. So he went on briskly with his task of discharging the Retriever and when the AD liner pulled out for Liverpool with Captain Noah's body on board, he laid off work merely long enough to dip the ensign and run it to half mast again until the steamer was out of sight; then he furled the flag, stored it in the locker in Captain Noah's stateroom, into which he had now moved, and went on superintending the discharging. When the vessel was empty he had a tug tow him out into the roadstead, where he cast anchor and set himself patiently to await the arrival of the special messenger “as big as a horse.”

Somehow Matt didn't relish that little dash of descriptive writing. In conjunction with the noun horse Cappy Ricks had employed the indefinite article a, and while a horse was a horse and Cappy might have had a Shetland pony in mind when he coined the simile, nevertheless, a still small voice whispered to Matt Peasley that at the time Cappy was really thinking of a Percheron. The longer Matt chewed the cud of anticipation the more acute grew his regret that he had threatened to throw his successor overboard. He traced a certain analogy between that threat and Cappy Ricks' simple declarative sentence, and finally he decided to take Mr. Murphy into his confidence.

“Mike,” he said, “did you ever hear any gossip to the effect that Cappy Ricks will swallow a bluff?”

“No, I never have,” Mr. Murphy replied. “Why do you ask? You been trying to bluff him, Matt?”

“No, I really meant it when I said it, and if I'm crowded I'll make good, but somehow I wish I hadn't said it. It wasn't dignified.”

“What did you say, Matt?”

“I cabled the owners that if they sent a skipper down here to relieve me they had better insure his life, because I'd throw him overboard upon arrival.”

“Why, that's war talk,” Mr. Murphy declared, highly scandalized. “I don't think Cappy Ricks will stand for that. I know blame well I wouldn't.”

“What would you do, Mike, if you stood in Cappy's shoes and I sent you that cablegram?”

“Well,” Mr. Murphy mused, “of course I'd be a little old man weighing about a hundred and thirty pounds ring-side, and I wouldn't be able to thrash you myself, but if it took my last dollar I'd send somebody down here to do the job for me.

“Well, I guess that's just about what Cappy has done,” Matt admitted, and handed his mate Cappy's cablegram.

“Hah-hah!” Mr. Murphy commented. “That threat got past the general manager, right up to headquarters. Why, the old man signed this cablegram and they do say that when Cappy takes personal charge the fur begins to fly. Matt, if I was a drinking man I'd offer to bet you a scuttle of grog it's a case of die dog, or eat the meat-axe. Your bluff has been called, my son.”

“Then,” Matt averred impudently, “the only thing for me to do is to call Cappy's.”

“How?”

“Why, give his messenger a good trouncing, of course. You don't suppose I'm going to stand by and take a thrashing or let the other fellow heave me overboard, do you? I should say not!”

Mr. Murphy puffed at his pipe, in silence for several minutes, the while he pondered the situation. Presently he arrived at a solution.

“He wouldn't send a prize-fighter down here, just to lick you,” he announced. “The old man is the wildest spendthrift on earth when you get him started, but as a general rule his middle name is Tight Wad. He would select a combination of scrapper and skipper, and there are any number of such combinations on the beach of 'Frisco town. I could name you a dozen off-hand, and any one of the dozen would make you mind your P's and Q's, big as you are. Still, they all fight alike—rough and tumble, catch-as-catch-can. They come wading in, swinging both arms and you could sail the Retriever through the openings they leave. Know anything about boxing, Matt?”

“Not a thing, Mike. I've always had to climb the big fellows.”

“Then I'll teach you,” Mr. Murphy announced with conviction. “You're in fine shape now—as right as a fox and fit to tackle the finest, but there isn't any sense in getting mauled up when you don't have to. I'll go ashore and buy a set of six-ounce gloves, a set of two-ounce gloves and a punching bag. For the next three weeks you won't have anything to do except prepare for the battle, and I can teach you a lot of good stuff in three weeks. To be fore-warned is to be fore-armed, Matt, and if Cappy has sent a Holy Terror to clean you, give him a regular fight, even if he licks you.”

Matt Peasley nodded. He entertained a profound respect for Mr. Murphy's judgment.