Cappy Ricks read it, the principal item of interest in it being a purported interview with Matt Peasley, who, in choice newspaperese, had entered a vigorous denial of the charge.  The story concluded with the statement that Peasley was a native of Thomaston, Maine, where he had always borne a most excellent reputation for steadiness and sobriety.

Cappy Ricks laid the paper aside.

Thomaston, Maine!  So the man Peasley was a Down-Easter!  That explained it.

“Well, I hope my teeth may fall into the ocean!” Cappy murmured.  “Thomaston, Maine!  Why, he’s one of our own town boys—­one of my own people!  Dear, dear, dear!  Well now, it’s strange I didn’t know that name.  I must be getting old to forget it.”

He sat in his swivel chair, rocking gently backward and forward for several minutes, after a fashion he had when perturbed.  Suddenly his old hand shot out and pressed the push button on his desk, and his stenographer answered.

“Send Mr. Skinner in!” he commanded.

Presently Mr. Skinner came, and again Cappy eyed him over the tops of his spectacles; again the terrible silence.  Skinner commenced to fidget.

“Skinner,” began Cappy impressively, “how often have I got to tell you not to interfere with the shipping?  Tut, tut!  Not a peep out of you, sir—­not a peep!  You had the audacity, sir, to swear to a Federal warrant against the man Peasley.  How dare you, sir?  Do you know who the man Peasley is?  You don’t.  Well, sir, I’ll tell you.  He’s a Down-East boy and I went to school with his people.  I’ll bet Ethan Peasley was a relative of this boy Matt, because Ethan had a cousin by the name of Matthew; and Ethan and Matt and I used to hell around together until they went to sea.

“Lord bless you, Skinner, I can remember yet the day the Martha Peasley came up the harbor, with her flag at half-mast—­and poor old Ethan was gone—­whipped off the end of her main yard when she rolled!

“We were great chums, Ethan and I, Skinner; and I cried.  Why—­why, damn it, sir, this boy Matt’s people and mine are all buried in the same cemetery back home.  Yes, sir!  And nearly all of ’em have the same epitaph—­’Lost at Sea’—­and—­you idiot, Skinner!  What do you mean, sir, by standing there with your infernal little smile on your smug face?  Out of my office, you jackanapes, and call the dogs off this boy Matt.  Why, there was never one of his breed that wasn’t a man and a seaman, every inch of him.

“All Hands And Feet thrash a Peasley!  Huh!  A joke!  Why, Ethan was six foot six at twenty, with an arm like a fathom of towing cable.  Catch me turning down one of our own boys!  No, sir!  Not by a damned sight!”

In all his life Mr. Skinner had never seen Cappy Ricks so wrought up.  He fled at once to call off the dogs, while Cappy turned to his desk and wrote this telegram: 

San Francisco, California. 
June 28, 19—.