“Matt Peasley,” said Cappy solemnly, “you think this is funny; but it isn’t.  You do not realize what you are doing.  Why, this action of yours will be construed as highway robbery and no man on the Street will trust you.  You must think of your future in business.  If this leaks out nobody will ever extend you any credit—­”

“I should worry about credit when I have the cash!” Matt retorted.  “I’m absolutely within the law, and this whole affair is my picnic and your funeral.  Moreover, I dare you to give me permission to circulate this story up and down California Street!  Yes, sir, I dare you—­and you aren’t game!  Why, everybody would be cheering for me and laughing at you, and you’d get about as much sympathy as a rich relative with arterial sclerosis.  I haven’t any sympathy for you, Mr. Ricks.  You got me into this whole mess when a kind word from you would have kept me out of it.  But, no; you wouldn’t extend me that kind word.  You wanted to see me get tangled up and go broke; and when you thought I was a dead one you made fun of me and rejoiced in my wretchedness, and did everything you could to put me down and out, just so you could say:  ’Well, I warned you, Matt; but you would go to it.  You have nobody to blame but yourself.’

“Of course I realize that you didn’t want to make any money out of me; but you did want to manhandle me, Mr. Ricks, just as a sporting proposition.  Besides, you tried to double-cross me with that wireless message.  I knew what you were up to.  You thought you had pulled the same stunt on me I pulled on you, and that letter to Captain Grant contained full instructions.  However, you wanted to be so slick about it you wouldn’t get caught with your fingers in the jam; so you forbore to cancel my charter.  You figured you’d present me with my troubles all in one heap the day I got back from Panama.  I’m onto you!”

“Well, I guess we’ve still got a sting in our tail,” Cappy answered pertly.  “Slap on your libels.  We’ll lift ’em all, and to-morrow we’ll expect eighteen thousand dollars from you, or I’m afraid, Matthew, my boy, you’re going to lose that ship with her cargo of steel rails, and we’ll collect the freight.”

“Again you lose.  You’ll have to make a formal written demand on me for the money before you cancel the charter; and when you do I’ll hand you a certified check for eighteen thousand dollars.  Don’t think for a minute that I’m a pauper, Mr. Ricks; because I’m not.  When a fellow freights one cargo to Panama and another back, and it doesn’t cost him a blamed cent to stow the first cargo and cheap Jamaica nigger labor to stow the second, and the cost of operating the ship for the round trip is absolutely nil—­I tell you, sir, there’s money in it.”

Cappy Ricks’ eyes blazed, but he controlled his temper and made one final appeal.

“Matt,” he said plaintively, “you infernal young cut-up, quit kidding the old man!  Don’t tell me that a Peasley, of Thomaston, Maine, would take advantage of certain adventitious circumstances and the legal loopholes provided by our outrageous maritime laws—­”