“There is no necessity for a fight, Mr. Ricks.  It all rests with me whether this is a salvage job or just a plain towing job at the customary rates.”

Cappy looked at his ex-skipper keenly.

“Matt,” he charged, “you’ve got a scheme.  You want something.”

“I do; I want to save you a lot of fuss and worry and expense.  In return I want you to do something for me.”

“I’ll do it, Matt.  What is the program?”

“Give me that twenty thousand dollars you justly owe me—­twenty thousand dollars I have to my credit on your books, which you are withholding just because you have the power to withhold it.”

“And in return—­”

“I’ll tear up the deadly document I extorted from Murphy and report a mere towage job to my owners.”

Cappy pressed the push-button and a boy appeared.

“Tell Mr. Skinner I want to see him,” he ordered, and an instant later Mr. Skinner entered.  “Skinner,” said Cappy, “draw a check for twenty thousand in favor of Matt Peasley, and charge it to his account.”

“And then send it over to the bank and certify it,” Matt added, “because before I get through with you, Mr. Ricks, you’ll be tempted to stop payment on it, if I know you—­and I think I do.”

Half an hour later Cappy handed Matt Peasley, a certified check for twenty thousand dollars, and in exchange the latter handed Cappy the only proof the Red Stack people would have had, over and above the contradictory testimony of the crews of the respective vessels, that the services of their tug constituted salvage and not towage.  Cappy read it, tore it into shreds and glared at Matt Peasley.

“Matt,” he said very solemnly, “I’m glad this thing happened.  I’ve always had a good opinion of you, but now I know that though you have many excellent qualities you do not possess that quality which above all others I require in an employee or a son-in-law.

“You aren’t loyal.  You had the sweetest case of salvage against our vessel that any man could go into court with, and you kicked it away like that, just for your own selfish ends.  You sacrificed your shipmates, who would have been awarded a pro rata of the salvage, and you were false to the trust your owners reposed in you.”

Cappy stood up, his face pale with fury, and shook an admonitory finger under Matt Peasley’s nose.

“That act, sir, is an index of your true character,” he thundered.  “A master who will deceive his owners, who will be false to their interests, is a scoundrel, sir; do you hear me?—­a scoundrel.  You will oblige me, sir, by refraining from any attentions to my daughter in the future.  To think that you have descended to such a petty, miserable subterfuge to trick me and rob your owners!  Thank God, I have found you out in time!”

“Yes, isn’t it fortunate?” Matt answered humorously.  “And if you get any angrier you’ll bust an artery and die.”