disabuse your mind of that impression right now.  You’ll step right up to the plate, my son, and you’ll hit the ball fairly on the nose, and you’ll do it early and often.  The first time you tip a foul, you’ll be warned.  The second time you do it you’ll get a month’s lay-off to think it over, and the third time you’ll be out—­for keeps.  Do I make myself clear?”

“You do, sir,” Mr. Peck declared happily.  “All I ask is fighting room and I’ll hack my way into Mr. Skinner’s heart.  Thank you, Mr. Skinner, for consenting to take me on.  I appreciate your action very, very much and shall endeavor to be worthy of your confidence.”

“Young scoundrel!  In-fer-nal young scoundrel!” Cappy murmured to himself.  “He has a sense of humor, thank God!  Ah, poor old narrow-gauge Skinner!  If that fellow ever gets a new or unconventional thought in his stodgy head, it’ll kill him overnight.  He’s hopping mad right now, because he can’t say a word in his own defense, but if he doesn’t make hell look like a summer holiday for Mr. Bill Peck, I’m due to be mercifully chloroformed.  Good Lord, how empty life would be if I couldn’t butt in and raise a little riot every once in so often.”

Young Mr. Peck had risen and was standing at attention.  “When do I report for duty, sir?” he queried of Mr. Skinner.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Skinner retorted with a wintry smile.  Mr. Peck glanced at a cheap wrist watch.  “It’s twelve o’clock now,” he soliloquized aloud.  “I’ll pop out, wrap myself around some rations and report on the job at one P.M.  I might just as well knock out half a day’s pay.”  He glanced at Cappy Ricks and quoted: 

    “Count that day lost whose low descending sun
    Finds prices shot to glory and business done for fun.”

Unable to maintain his composure in the face of such levity during office hours, Mr. Skinner withdrew, still wrapped in his sub-Antarctic dignity.  As the door closed behind him, Mr. Peck’s eyebrows went up in a manner indicative of apprehension.

“I’m off to a bad start, Mr. Ricks,” he opined.

“You only asked for a start,” Cappy piped back at him.  “I didn’t guarantee you a good start, and I wouldn’t because I can’t.  I can only drive Skinner and Matt Peasley so far—­and no farther.  There’s always a point at which I quit—­er—­ah—­William.”

“More familiarly known as Bill Peck, sir.”

“Very well, Bill.”  Cappy slid out to the edge of his chair and peered at Bill Peck balefully over the top of his spectacles.  “I’ll have my eye on you, young feller,” he shrilled.  “I freely acknowledge our indebtedness to you, but the day you get the notion in your head that this office is an old soldiers’ home—­” He paused thoughtfully.  “I wonder what Skinner will pay you?” he mused.  “Oh, well,” he continued, whatever it is, take it and say nothing and when the moment is propitious—­and provided you’ve earned it—­I’ll intercede with the danged old relic and get you a raise.”