Presently an unmistakably feminine kiss, surreptitiously delivered, roused Cappy from his meditations.  He opened his eyes and beheld his daughter Florence, a radiant debutante of twenty, and the sole prop of her eccentric parent’s declining years.

“Daddy dear,” she announced, “there’s something wrong with my bank account.  I’ve just come from the Marine National Bank and they wouldn’t cash my check.”

“Of course not,” Cappy replied, beaming affectionately.  “They telephoned about five minutes ago that you’re into the red again; so I’ve instructed Skinner to deposit five thousand to your credit.”

“Oh, but I want ten thousand!” she protested.

“Can’t have it, Florry!” he declared.  “The old limousine will have to do.  Go slow, my dear—­go slow!  Why, they’re offering random cargoes freely along the street for nine dollars.  Logs cost six dollars, with a dollar and a half to manufacture—­that’s seven and a half; and three and a half water freight added—­that’s eleven dollars.  Eleven-dollar lumber selling for nine dollars, and no business at that!  I haven’t had a vessel dividend in six months—­

Mr. Skinner entered.

“Mr. Ricks,” he announced, “Captain Peasley, late of the Retriever, is in the outer office.  Shall I tell him to wait?”

“No.  Haven’t we been itching to see each other the past eighteen months?  Show him in immediately, Skinner.”  Cappy turned to his daughter.  “I want to show you something my dear,” he said; “something you’re not likely to meet very often in your set—­and that’s a he-man.  Do you remember hearing me tell the story of the mate that thrashed the big Swede skipper I sent to Cape Town to thrash him and bring the vessel home?”

“Do you mean the captain that never writes letters?”

“That’s the man.  The fellow I’ve been having so much fun with—­the Nervy Matt that tried to hornswoggle me with my own photograph.  Passed it off as his own, Florry!  He hails from my old home town, and he’s a mere boy—­Come in!”

The door opened to admit Matt Peasley; and as he paused just inside the entrance, slightly embarrassed at finding himself under the cool scrutiny of the trimmest, most dashing little craft he had ever seen, Miss Florry decided that her father was right.  Here, indeed, was a specimen of the genus Homo she had not hitherto seen.  Six feet three he was, straight from shoulder to hip, broad-chested and singularly well formed and graceful for such a big man.

He wore stout shoes, without toe caps—­rather old-fashioned footgear, Florry thought; but they were polished brightly.  A tailor-made, double-breasted blue serge suit, close-hauled and demoded; a soft white silk shirt, with non-detachable collar; a plain black silk four-in-hand tie, and a uniform cap, set a little back and to one side on thick, black, glossy, wavy hair, completed his attire.  He had his right hand in his trousers pocket; his left was on the doorknob.  He glanced from her to her father.