“Well, you know your own captains, Mr. Ricks.  They’ll save their ships a dollar wherever they can; and simple, honest Old Man Grant agreed to my suggestion.  Before he had an opportunity to consider I stepped to the telegraph office and wrote this message for him.”  Matt produced another telegram and read: 

  “’Blue Star Navigation Company,
    “’258 California Street, San Francisco.

  “’Instructions with reference to change of masters received.

Would feel badly if I thought any act of mine necessitated change; but since my conscience is clear I shall not worry.  I always have done and always shall do my duty to my owners without thought of my personal interests, and you may rely fully on that in the present emergency.’

“Well, sir, that sounded so infernally grandiloquent to Old Man Grant that his hand actually trembled with emotion as he signed it—­at my suggestion.  You know I’d hate to be tried for forgery.  Then I shook hands with him and started for Panama once more—­only this time I kept right on going; and I didn’t spare the fuel oil either.  Why should I?  It wasn’t costing me anything.”

Both Cappy and Mr. Skinner winced, as from a blow.  Matt waited for them to say something, but they didn’t; so after a respectful interval he resumed: 

“Off the Coronado Islands I sent you Captain Grant’s diplomatic message.  I was very glad to send it to you, Mr. Ricks, because I knew its receipt would make you very happy, and I like to scatter happiness wherever I can.  The Scriptures say we should return good for evil.”

Cappy Ricks bounded to his feet and shook a skinny fist under Matt Peasley’s nose.

“You’re a damned scoundrel!” he piped, beside himself with rage.  “Be careful how you talk to me, young man, or I’ll lose my temper; and if I ever do—­”

“That would be terrible, wouldn’t it?” Matt laughed.  “I suppose you’d just haul off and biff me one, and I’d think it was autumn with the leaves falling!”

Cappy choked, turned purple, sat down again, and glanced covertly at Mr. Skinner, who returned the glance with one that seemed to shout aloud:  “Mr. Ricks, I smell a rat as big as a Shetland pony.  Something has slipped and we’re covered with blood.  Incredible as it may seem, this rowdy Peasley has outthought us!”

“Did you get the letter we sent Captain Grant at Panama?” Skinner managed to articulate presently.

Matt nodded affirmatively.

“Opened it, I suppose!” Cappy accused him.

Matt nodded negatively, produced the letter from his pocket and handed it to Cappy.

“Where I was raised,” he said gently, “they taught boys that it was wrong to read other people’s private correspondence.  You will note that the seal is unbroken.”

“Thank God for that!” Cappy Ricks murmured, sotto voice, and tore the letter into tiny bits.  “Now, then,” he said, “we’ll hear the rest of your story.”