Alden P. Ricks,
    258 California St.,
      San Francisco.

Neither!  Been waiting my turn to go on dry dock.  On now.  Didn’t reply yesterday because too busy driving toothpicks in vessel’s bottom to plug up wormholes.  If Murphy hadn’t hauled into fresh water last time on Grays Harbor while I was in Seattle getting my ticket, her bottom would look like a colander now.  Sixteen months in the water.  You ought to be ashamed to treat a good staunch ship like that.  Off dock day after to-morrow; will tow to Tacoma immediately thereafter.  Meantime expect apology for insulting telegram.

Peasley.

Sixteen months without dry-docking!  Why, her bottom must look like the devil!  Cappy Ricks gazed long and earnestly at his general manager.

“Skinner,” he said, “you’re an ass!  Why was not this vessel dry-docked before you sent her to Antofagasta?”

Mr. Skinner lost his temper.

“Because I didn’t send her to Antofagasta,” be replied sharply.  “You did!  And the reason she wasn’t docked is because there isn’t a dock on Grays Harbor.  If you wouldn’t interfere in the shipping, Mr. Ricks, and spoil my plans to satisfy your personal whims, the vessel would never have gone on that long voyage without being cleaned and painted.”

“Enough!” Cappy half screamed.  “It’s a disgrace!  Not another word, sir!  Not another peep out of you.  Why didn’t you order the man Peasley to dock her?  Why did you leave the decision to him?  He knew his vessel was foul—­he thought we ought to know it, also; and naturally he expected that when we ordered him to Seattle we would have made arrangements to put him on dry dock.  Instead of which he had to make them himself; and I’m shown up as a regular, infernal—­er—­er—­baboon!  Yes, sir!  Regular baboon!  Nice spectacle you’ve made of me, getting me into a scrape where I have to apologize to my own captain!  Baboon!  Huh!  Baboon!  Yes; you’re the baboon!”

“Well, I can’t think of everything, Mr. Ricks—­”

“Everything!  Good Lord, man, if you’d only think of something!  Send in a stenographer.”

Mr. Skinner rang for the girl and retired in high dudgeon, while Cappy Ricks smote his corrugated brow and brought forth the following: 

  Captain Matthew Peasley,
    Master Barkentine Retriever,
      Hall’s Dry Dock, Eagle Harbor, Wash.

“Yes; that was a grave oversight sending you to Antofagasta without docking you first.  Express my appreciation of Murphy’s forethought in killing some of the worms.  Am not kind of owner that lets a ship go to glory to make dividends.  Keep your vessel in top-notch shape at all times, though I realize this instruction unnecessary to you.  Give the old girl all that is coming to her, including two coats X. & Y. copper paint.  Replace all planking that looks suspicious.

Alden P. Ricks.