“You mean in ballast,” Matt suggested.  Skinner nodded.  “Oh, well, that accounts for it,” Matt continued serenely.  “I came home with a cargo of steel rails.”

Cappy Ricks slid out to the extreme edge of his swivel chair; and, with a hand on each knee, he gazed at Matt Peasley over the rims of his spectacles.  Mr. Skinner started violently.

“You came home with a cargo of steel rails?” Cappy demanded incredulously.

“Certainly!  Do you suppose I would go to the expense of hiring somebody else to skipper the Tillicum while I was there with my license?  Not by a jugful!  I was saving every dollar I could.  I had to.”

“Er—­er—­Where is Captain Grant?” Skinner demanded.

“Captain Grant is free, white and twenty-one.  He goes where he pleases without consulting me, Mr. Skinner.  He means nothing in my life—­so why should I know where he is?”

“You infernal scoundrel!” shrilled Cappy Ricks.  “You whaled hell out of him and threw him out on the dock at Panama—­that’s what you did to him!  You took the Tillicum away from him by force.”

“Captain Grant is a fine, elderly gentleman, sir,” Matt interrupted.  “I would not use force on him.  He left the ship of his own free will at San Diego, California.”

“At San Diego?” Cappy and Skinner cried in unison.

“At San Diego.”

“But you said you were going to Panama on the City of Para, the regular passenger liner,” Cappy challenged.

“Well, I wasn’t committed to that course, sir.  After leaving your office I changed my mind.  I figured the Tillicum was somewhere off the coast of Lower California; so I wirelessed Captain Grant, explained to him that the ship was back on my hands by reason of the failure of Morrow & Company, and ordered him to put into San Diego for further orders.  He proceeded there; I proceeded there; we met; I presented your letter relieving him of his command.  Simple enough, isn’t it?”

“But what became of him?”

“How should I know, sir?  I’ve been as busy as a bird dog down in Panama.  Please let me get on with my story.  I had just cleared Point Loma and was about to surrender the bridge to my first mate when an interesting little message came trickling out of the ether—­and my wireless boy picked it up, because it was addressed to ’Captain Grant, Master S. S. Tillicum.’”

Cappy Ricks quivered and licked his lower lip, but said nothing.

“That message,” Matt continued, “was brought to me by the operator, who really didn’t know what to do with it.  Captain Grant had left the ship and Sparks didn’t know what hotel in San Diego the late master of the Tillicum would put up for the night; so I read the message to see whether it was important, for I felt that it had to do with the ship’s business and that I was justified in reading it.”

Again Cappy Ricks squirmed.  Mr. Skinner commenced to gnaw his thumb nail.