“Thank you very much, sir.  You are most kind.  Good-day, sir.”

And Bill Peck picked up his hat and limped out of The Presence.  Scarcely had the door closed behind him than Mr. Skinner re-entered Cappy Ricks’ lair.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Cappy silenced him with an imperious finger.

“Not a peep out of you, Skinner, my dear boy,” he chirped amiably.  “I know exactly what you’re going to say and I admit your right to say it, but—­as—­ahem!  Harumph-h-h!—­now, Skinner, listen to reason.  How the devil could you have the heart to reject that crippled ex-soldier?  There he stood, on one sound leg, with his sleeve tucked into his coat pocket and on his homely face the grin of an unwhipped, unbeatable man.  But you—­blast your cold, unfeeling soul, Skinner!—­looked him in the eye and turned him down like a drunkard turns down near-beer.  Skinner, how could you do it?”

Undaunted by Cappy’s admonitory finger, Mr. Skinner struck a distinctly defiant attitude.

“There is no sentiment in business,” he replied angrily.  “A week ago last Thursday the local posts of the American Legion commenced their organized drive for jobs for their crippled and unemployed comrades, and within three days you’ve sawed off two hundred and nine such jobs on the various corporations that you control.  The gang you shipped up to the mill in Washington has already applied for a charter for a new post to be known as Cappy Ricks Post No. 534.  And you had experienced men discharged to make room for these ex-soldiers.”

“You bet I did,” Cappy yelled triumphantly.  “It’s always Old Home Week in every logging camp and saw-mill in the Northwest for I.W.W.’s and revolutionary communists.  I’m sick of their unauthorized strikes and sabotage, and by the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, Cappy Ricks Post.  No. 534, American Legion, is the only sort of back-fire I can think of to put the Wobblies on the run.”

“Every office and ship and retail yard could be run by a first-sergeant,” Skinner complained.  “I’m thinking of having reveille and retreat and bugle calls and Saturday morning inspections.  I tell you, sir, the Ricks interests have absorbed all the old soldiers possible and at the present moment those interests are overflowing with glory.  What we want are workers, not talkers.  These ex-soldiers spend too much time fighting their battles over again.”

“Well, Comrade Peck is the last one I’ll ask you to absorb, Skinner,” Cappy promised contritely.  “Ever read Kipling’s Barrack Room Ballads, Skinner?”

“I have no time to read,” Mr. Skinner protested.

“Go up town this minute and buy a copy and read one ballad entitled ‘Tommy,’” Cappy barked.  “For the good of your immortal soul,” he added.

“Well, Comrade Peck doesn’t make a hit with me, Mr. Ricks.  He applied to me for a job and I gave him his answer.  Then he went to Captain Matt and was refused, so, just to demonstrate his bad taste, he went over our heads and induced you to pitchfork him into a job.  He’ll curse the day he was inspired to do that.”