“I’ll not need any, thank you.  I saved sixteen hundred dollars while I was in the Retriever—­”

“Fine!  Good boy!” exclaimed Cappy, delighted beyond measure at this proof of Matt’s Yankee thrift and sobriety.  “But don’t save it, Matt.  Invest it.  Put it in a mortgage for three years.  I know a captain now that wants to borrow a thousand dollars at eight per cent. to buy an interest in one of our vessels.  You shall loan it to him, Matt, and he’ll secure you with the insurance.  Perfectly safe.  Guarantee it myself.  Bring your thousand dollars round in the morning, Matt.  Understand?  No fooling now!  Make your money work for you.  You bet!  If I’m not here tomorrow leave the money with Skinner.”

“Mr. Skinner is the general manager, isn’t he?”

“Yes, and a mighty clever one, too.  Don’t you monkey with Skinner, young man.  He doesn’t like you and he doesn’t bluff worth a cent; and if you ever have a run-in with him while I’m away and he fires you—­well, I guess I’d have to stand by Skinner, Matt.  I can’t afford to lose him.  Cold-blooded dog—­no sense of humor; but honest—­a pig for work, and capable.”

“I’ll be very careful, sir,” Matt assured him.  “Thank you for the vacation, the promised job, and the chance to invest my thousand dollars at eight per cent.  And, now that my affairs are out of the way, let’s talk about yours.  I think I can get you a four-year charter for your steamer Lion—­”

“Matt,” said Cappy Ricks impressively, “if you can get that brute of a boat off my hands for four years, and at a figure that will pay me ten per cent. on her cost price, I’ll tell you what—­I’ll pay you a commission.”

“I don’t want any commission, sir, for working for the interests of my employer.  What do you reckon it costs a day to operate the Lion?”

Cappy drew a scratch pad toward him and commenced to figure.

“She’ll burn a hundred and seventy barrels of crude oil a day, at sixty-five cents a barrel.  That’s about a hundred and ten dollars.  Her wages will average seventy-five dollars a day; it costs twenty dollars a day to feed her crew; incidentals, say twenty dollars a day; insurance, say, four dollars a day; wireless, three and a half dollars; depreciation, say, two dollars and seventy-five cents a day; total in round figures two hundred and thirty-five dollars a day.  I ought to get four hundred dollars a day for her; but in a pinch like the present I’d be glad to get her off my hands at three hundred and fifty dollars.  But, no matter what the price may be, Matt, I’m afraid we can’t charter her.”

“Why?”

“Because the Black Butte Lumber Company owns her sister, the Unicorn; she’s a burden on their back, as the Lion is on mine, there’s war to the finish between Hudner, the Black Butte manager, and myself, and he’ll get the business.  He’s a dog, Matt—­always cutting prices below the profit point and raising hob in the market.  Infernal marplot!  He stole the best stenographer in the United States from me here about three years ago.”