That same evening Cappy sneaked into his daughter’s apartments and found a photograph of Matt Peasley in a hammered silver frame on Florry’s dressing table.

“Holy sailor!” he chuckled.  “They think they’re putting one over on the old gentleman, don’t they?  Trying to cover me with blood, eh?  Huh!  If I’d let that fellow Matt stay ashore he’d have hung round Florry until he wore out his welcome, and I suppose in the long run I’d have had to put up with one of these lawn-tennis, tea-swilling young fellows too proud to work.  By Judas Priest, when I quit the street I want to give my proxy to a lad that will make my competitors mind their step, and by keeping Matt at sea a couple of years, I’ll get him over the moon-calf period.  Deliver my girl and my business from the hands of a damned fool!”

The following evening Cappy questioned his daughter’s chauffeur—­a chauffeur, by the way, being a luxury which Cappy scorned for himself.  He maintained a coachman and a carriage and a spanking team of bays, and drove to his office like the old-fashioned gentleman he was.  From this chauffeur Cappy learned that he, the chauffeur, had been out all the afternoon with Miss Florence and a large, light-hearted young gentleman.  They had lunched together at the Cliff House.

“What did she call him?” Cappy demanded, anxious to verify his suspicions.  “Didn’t she address him as ‘Matt?’”

“No, sir,” the man replied, grinning.  “She called him ‘dearie.’”

“Holy jumped-up Jehosophat!” murmured Cappy, and questioned the man no further.  That evening, however, he decided to have a heart—­particularly after Florry had informed him that she was going out to dinner the following night.

“And you’ll be all alone, popsy-wops,” she added, “so you had better eat dinner at the club.”

“Oh, I’m tired of my clubs,” Cappy replied sadly.  “Still your remark gives me an idea, Florry.  If I happen to run across that young fellow Peasley—­you remember him, Florry; the boy I’m training for a steamship captain—­I’ll have him out for dinner with me so I’ll not have to eat alone.”

“I thought you didn’t care for him socially,” Florry put forth a feeler.

“Well, he used to remind me considerably of a St. Bernard pup, but I notice he’s losing a lot of that fresh, puppy-dog way he used to have.  And then he’s a Down-East boy.  His Uncle Ethan Peasley and I were pals together fifty years ago, and for Ethan’s sake I feel that I ought to show the boy some consideration.  He’s learning to hold himself together pretty well, and if I should run into him to-morrow I’ll ask him out.”

Florry exhibited not the slightest interest in her father’s plans, but he noticed that immediately after dinner she hurried up to her room, and that upon her return she declined a game of pool with her father on the score of not feeling very well.