position, and, manlike, decided to relieve the old fellow of that embarrassment.  Matt concluded that he would retain his job as master of the tug Sea Fox for a few months—­say six—­and then ask Cappy Ricks for twenty thousand dollars, which amount would by that time be to his credit on the Blue Star books by reason of his half-interest in the seventy-five-dollar-a-day profit he and Cappy had annexed when rechartering the steamer Unicorn.  With that amount of money in hand, plus the savings from his salary, he planned to marry Cappy’s daughter and go into business for himself as a ship, freight and marine insurance broker.

Mr. Skinner heard of Matt Peasley’s appointment as master of the tug Sea Fox several hours before the same information reached Matt himself.  The general manager of the tugboat company, scanning Matt’s application and having a vacancy to fill, called up Mr. Skinner.

“Say, Skinner,” he said, “I have an application for a job as master for one of our tugs from Captain Matthew Peasley.  He tells me he was a couple of years under the Blue Star flag, from A. B. to master of steam and sail, with an unlimited license.  Is he a good man?”

“We never had a more capable skipper in our employ,” said Mr. Skinner truthfully.

“Why did you let him go then?”

“He resigned.”

“Under fire?”

“No, he quit voluntarily.”

“Honest?”

“Very.”

“Then what’s wrong with him?”

“He doesn’t like me.  But he’s capable and fearless and a devil on wheels.  He’ll take a ship anywhere and bring her out again whole.”

“Then he’s my huckleberry.  That’s the kind of man for a tugboat skipper,” was the reply, and Matt Peasley had the job, greatly to the joy of Mr. Skinner, who realized now that his ultimatum to Cappy Ricks had been a knockout blow.  Cappy had surrendered, and the rowdy Matt, having given up hope of a snug berth as port captain of the Blue Star Navigation Company, had in despair sought a job with a tugboat company.

Mr. Skinner was so happy he shelved his office dignity long enough to whistle a popular ballad that had been running through his mind of late.  All too gladly had he recommended Matt Peasley for that tugboat job!  He would have employed anything, short of dishonorable methods, to rid the Blue Star of that incubus!

Cappy Ricks almost wept with rage when his daughter informed him that Matt had gone back to salt water.  She was a little indignant over it, and demanded a show-down from her unhappy father, who looked at her miserably and said he’d think it over.

He did.  Every afternoon, upon his return from luncheon he slid down on his spine in his upholstered swivel chair, draped his old shanks over his desk, dropped his chin on his breast, closed his eyes and went into a clinch with the awful problem, with all its dips, spurs and angles.  Save for the nervous clasping and unclasping of his hands one would have thought him sound asleep.