These instructions Mr. Skinner grudgingly complied with; and Matt Peasley, with his hatches wide open and buckets of punk burning in the hold to dispel the lingering fragrance of his recent cargo—­concluding that, on the whole, he and Mr. Murphy had come through the entire affair very handsomely indeed—­towed down to Hadlock and commenced to take on cargo.  If Cappy Ricks was willing to declare a truce then Matt Peasley would declare one too.

Matt’s peaceful acquiescence in his owner’s program merely served to arouse Cappy Ricks’ abnormal curiosity.  The more he thought of Matt Peasley the greater grew his desire for a closer scrutiny.  The most amazing man in the world had been in his employ a year and a half, and as yet they had never met; unless the Retriever should happen to be loaded for San Francisco years might elapse before they should see each other; and now that he had attained to his allotted three score years and ten Cappy decided that he could no longer gamble on the future.

He summoned Mr. Skinner.

“Skinner, my dear boy,” he announced with the naive simplicity that made him so lovable.  “I suppose it’s very childish of me, but I have a tremendous desire to see this extraordinary fellow Peasley.”

“You can afford to satisfy your slightest whim, Mr. Ricks,” he replied.  “I’ll load her for San Francisco after she returns from Australia.  I daresay if he ever gets through the Golden Gate he’ll call up at the office.”

“Skinner, I can’t wait that long.  Many things may happen.  Ahem!  Harump-h-h-h!  Wire the man Peasley, Skinner, to have his photograph taken and forwarded to me immediately charging expense.”

“Very well, sir,” Mr. Skinner responded.

“Well, I’ll be keel-hauled and skull-dragged,” Matt Peasley declared to Mr. Murphy.  “Here’s a telegram from the owners demanding my photograph.”

Mr. Murphy read the amazing message, scratched his raven poll, and declared his entire willingness to be damned.

“It’s a trap,” he announced presently.  “Don’t send it.  Matt, you look about twenty years old and for the next few years, if you expect to work under the Blue Star flag, you must remember your face isn’t your fortune.  You’ve got to be pickled in salt for twenty years to please Cappy Ricks.  If he sees your photograph he’ll fire you, Matt.  I know that old crocodile.  All he wants is an excuse to give you the foot, anyhow.”

“But he’s ordered me to send it, Mike.  How am I going to get out of it?”

As has been stated earlier in this tale, Mr. Murphy had an imagination.

“Go over into the town, sir,” he said, “and in any photograph gallery you can pick up a picture of some old man.  Write your name across it and send it to Cappy.  He’ll be just as happy, then, as though he had good sense.”

“By George, I’ll just do that!” Matt declared, and forthwith went ashore.

He sought the only photographer in Port Hadlock.  At the entrance to the shop he found a glass case containing samples of the man’s art, and was singularly attracted to the photograph of a spruce little old gentleman in a Henry Clay collar, long mutton-chop whiskers, and spectacles.