“Skinner!  Skinner!  Look me in the eye!  Do you know why I asked you to take on Bill Peck?”

“I do.  Because you’re too tender-hearted for your own good.”

“You unimaginative dunderhead!  You jibbering jackdaw!  How could I reject a boy who simply would not be rejected?  Why, I’ll bet a ripe peach that Bill Peck was one of the doggondest finest soldiers you ever saw.  He carries his objective.  He sized you up just like that, Skinner.  He declined to permit you to block him.  Skinner, that Peck person has been opposed by experts.  Yes, sir—­experts!  What kind of a job are you going to give him, Skinner, my dear boy?”

“Andrews’ job, of course.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot.  Skinner, dear boy, haven’t we got about half a million feet of skunk spruce to saw off on somebody?” Mr. Skinner nodded and Cappy continued with all the naive eagerness of one who has just made a marvelous discovery, which he is confident will revolutionize science.  “Give him that stinking stuff to peddle, Skinner, and if you can dig up a couple of dozen carloads of red fir or bull pine in transit, or some short or odd-length stock, or some larch ceiling or flooring, or some hemlock random stock—­in fact, anything the trade doesn’t want as a gift—­you get me, don’t you, Skinner?”

Mr. Skinner smiled his swordfish smile.  “And if he fails to make good—­au revoir, eh?”

“Yes, I suppose so, although I hate to think about it.  On the other hand, if he makes good he’s to have Andrews’ salary.  We must be fair, Skinner.  Whatever our faults we must always be fair.”  He rose and patted the general manager’s lean shoulder.  “There, there, Skinner, my boy.  Forgive me if I’ve been a trifle—­ah—­ahem!—­precipitate and—­er—­harumph-h-h!  Skinner, if you put a prohibitive price on that skunk fir, by the Holy Pink-toed Prophet, I’ll fire you!  Be fair, boy, be fair.  No dirty work, Skinner.  Remember, Comrade Peck has half of his left forearm buried in France.”

* * * * *

III

At twelve-thirty, as Cappy was hurrying up California Street to luncheon at the Commercial Club, he met Bill Peck limping down the sidewalk.  The ex-soldier stopped him and handed him a card.

“What do you think of that, sir?” he queried.  “Isn’t it a neat business card?”

Cappy read: 

+---------------------------------------------------+
|       Ricks lumber & logging company              |
|          Lumber and its products                  |
|             248 California St.                    |
|               San Francisco.                      |
|                                                   |
| Represented by                                    |
| William E. Peck                                   |
|   If you can drive nails in it--we have it!       |
+---------------------------------------------------+

Cappy Ricks ran a speculative thumb over Comrade Peck’s business card.  It was engraved.  And copper plates or steel dies are not made in half an hour!