I
Mr. Alden P. Ricks, known in Pacific Coast wholesale lumber and shipping circles as Cappy Ricks, had more troubles than a hen with ducklings. He remarked as much to Mr. Skinner, president and general manager of the Ricks Logging & Lumbering Company, the corporate entity which represented Cappy’s vast lumber interests; and he fairly barked the information at Captain Matt Peasley, his son-in-law and also president and manager of the Blue Star Navigation Company, another corporate entity which represented the Ricks interest in the American mercantile marine.
Mr. Skinner received this information in silence. He was not related to Cappy Ricks. But Matt Peasley sat down, crossed his legs and matched glares with his mercurial father-in-law.
“You have troubles!” he jeered, with emphasis on the pronoun. “Have you got a misery in your back, or is Herbert Hoover the wrong man for Secretary of Commerce?”
“Stow your sarcasm, young feller,” Cappy shrilled. “You know dad-blamed well it isn’t a question of health or politics. It’s the fact that in my old age I find myself totally surrounded by the choicest aggregation of mental duds since Ajax defied the lightning.”
“Meaning whom?”
“You and Skinner.”
“Why, what have we done?”
“You argued me into taking on the management of twenty-five of those infernal Shipping Board freighters, and no sooner do we have them allocated to us than a near panic hits the country, freight rates go to glory, marine engineers go on strike and every infernal young whelp we send out to take charge of one of our offices in the Orient promptly gets the swelled head and thinks he’s divinely ordained to drink up all the synthetic Scotch whiskey manufactured in Japan for the benefit of thirsty Americans. In my old age you two have forced us into the position of having to fire folks by cable. Why? Because we’re breaking into a game that can’t be played on the home grounds. A lot of our business is so far away we can’t control it.”
Matt Peasley leveled an accusing finger at Cappy Ricks. “We never argued you into taking over the management of those Shipping Board boats. We argued me into it. I’m the goat. You have nothing to do with it. You retired ten years ago. All the troubles in the marine end of this shop belong on my capable shoulders, old settler.”
“Theoretically—yes. Actually—no. I hope you do not expect me to abandon mental as well as physical effort. Great Wampus Cats! Am I to be denied a sentimental interest in matters where I have a controlling financial interest? I admit you two boys are running my affairs and ordinarily you run them rather well, but—but—ahem! Harumph-h-h! What’s the matter with you, Matt? And you, also, Skinner? If Matt makes a mistake, it’s your job to remind him of it before the results manifest themselves, is it not? And vice versa. Have you two boobs lost your ability to judge men, or did you ever have such ability?”
“You’re referring to Henderson, of the Shanghai office, I dare say,” Mr. Skinner cut in.
“I am, Skinner. And I’m here to remind you that if we’d stuck to our own game, which is coastwise shipping, and had left the trans-Pacific field with its general cargoes to others, we wouldn’t have any Shanghai office at this moment and we would not be pestered by the Hendersons of this world.”
“He’s the best lumber salesman we’ve ever had,” Mr. Skinner defended. “I had every hope that he would send us orders for many a cargo for Asiatic delivery.”
“And he had gone through every job in this office, from office boy to sales manager in the lumber department and from freight clerk to passenger agent in the navigation company,” Matt Peasley supplemented.
“I admit all of that. But did you consult me when you decided to send him out to China on his own?”
“Of course not. I’m boss of the Blue Star Navigation Company, am I not? The man was in charge of the Shanghai office before you ever opened your mouth to discharge your cargo of free advice.”
“I told you then that Henderson wouldn’t make good, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“And now I have an opportunity to tell you the little tale you didn’t give me an opportunity to tell you before you sent him out. Henderson was a good man—a crackerjack man—when he had a better man over him. But—I’ve been twenty years reducing a tendency on the part of that fellow’s head to bust his hat-band. And now he’s gone south with a hundred and thirty thousand taels of our Shanghai bank account.”
“Permit me to remind you, Mr. Ricks,” Mr. Skinner cut in coldly, “that he was bonded to the extent of a quarter of a million dollars.”
“Not a peep out of you, Skinner. Not a peep. Permit me to remind you that I’m the little genius who placed that insurance unknown to you and Matt. And I recall now that I was reminded by you, Matthew, my son, that I had retired ten years ago and please, would I quit interfering in the internal administration of your office.”
“Well, I must admit your far-sightedness in that instance will keep the Shanghai office out of the red ink this year,” Matt Peasley replied. “However, we face this situation, Cappy. Henderson has drunk and gambled and signed chits in excess of his salary. He hasn’t attended to business and he’s capped his inefficiency by absconding with our bank account. We couldn’t foresee that. When we send a man out to the Orient to be our manager there, we have to trust him all the way or not at all. So there is no use weeping over spilled milk, Cappy. Our job is to select a successor to Henderson and send him out to Shanghai on the next boat.”
“Oh, very well, Matt,” Cappy replied magnanimously, “I’ll not rub it into you. I suppose I’m far from generous, bawling you out like this. Perhaps, when you’re my age and have had a lot of mental and moral cripples nip you and draw blood as often as they’ve drawn it on me you’ll be a better judge than I of men worthy of the weight of responsibility. Skinner, have you got a candidate for this job?”
“I regret to say, sir, I have not. All of the men in my department are quite young—too young for the responsibility.”
“What do you mean—young?” Cappy blazed.
“Well, the only man I would consider for the job is Andrews and he is too young—about thirty, I should say.”
“About thirty, eh? Strikes me you were about twenty-eight when I threw ten thousand a year at you in actual cash, and a couple of million dollars’ worth of responsibility.”
“Yes, sir, but then Andrews has never been tested____”
“Skinner,” Cappy interrupted in his most awful voice, “it’s a constant source of amazement to me why I refrain from firing you. You say Andrews has never been tested. Why hasn’t he been tested? Why are we maintaining untested material in this shop, anyhow? Eh? Answer me that. Tut, tut, tut! Not a peep out of you, sir. If you had done your Christian duty, you would have taken a year’s vacation when lumber was selling itself in 1919 and 1920, and you would have left Andrews sitting in at your desk to see the sort of stuff he’s made of.”
“It’s a mighty lucky thing I didn’t go away for a year,” Skinner protested respectfully, “because the market broke—like that—and if you don’t think we have to hustle to sell sufficient lumber to keep our own ships busy freighting it____”
“Skinner, how dare you contradict me? How old was Matt Peasley when I turned over the Blue Star Navigation Company to him, lock, stock and barrel? Why, he wasn’t twenty-six years old. Skinner, you’re a dodo! The killjoys like you who have straddled the neck of industry and throttled it with absurd theories that a man’s back must be bent like an ox-bow and his locks snowy white before he can be entrusted with responsibility and a living wage, have caused all of our wars and strikes. This is a young man’s world, Skinner, and don’t you ever forget it. The go-getters of this world are under thirty years of age. Matt,” he concluded, turning to his son-in-law, “what do you think of Andrews for that Shanghai job?”
“I think he’ll do.”
“Why do you think he’ll do?”
“Because he ought to do. He’s been with us long enough to have acquired sufficient experience to enable him____”
“Has he acquired the courage to tackle the job, Matt?” Cappy interrupted. “That’s more important than this doggoned experience you and Skinner prate so much about.”
“I know nothing of his courage. I assume that he has force and initiative. I know he has a pleasing personality.”
“Well, before we send him out we ought to know whether or no he has force and initiative.”
“Then,” quoth Matt Peasley, rising, “I wash my hands of the job of selecting Henderson’s successor. You’ve butted in, so I suggest you name the lucky man.”
“Yes, indeed,” Skinner agreed. “I’m sure it’s quite beyond my poor abilities to uncover Andrews’ force and initiative on such short notice. He does possess sufficient force and initiative for his present job, but____”
“But will he possess force and initiative when he has to make a quick decision six thousand miles from expert advice, and stand or fall by that decision? That’s what we want to know, Skinner.”
“I suggest, sir,” Mr. Skinner replied with chill politeness, “that you conduct the examination.”
“I accept the nomination, Skinner. By the Holy Pink-toed Prophet! The next man we send out to that Shanghai office is going to be a go-getter. We’ve had three managers go rotten on us and that’s three too many.”
And without further ado, Cappy swung his aged legs up on to his desk and slid down in his swivel chair until he rested on his spine. His head sank on his breast and he closed his eyes.
“He’s framing the examination for Andrews,” Matt Peasley whispered, as he and Skinner made their exits.
II
The President emeritus of the Ricks interests was not destined to uninterrupted cogitation, however. Within ten minutes his private exchange operator called him to the telephone.
“What is it?” Cappy yelled into the transmitter.
“There is a young man in the general office. His name is Mr. William E. Peck and he desires to see you personally.”
Cappy sighed. “Very well,” he replied. “Have him shown in.”
Almost immediately the office boy ushered Mr. Peck into Cappy’s presence. The moment he was fairly inside the door the visitor halted, came easily and naturally to “attention” and bowed respectfully, while the cool glance of his keen blue eyes held steadily the autocrat of the Blue Star Navigation Company.
“Mr. Ricks, Peck is my name, sir—William E. Peck. Thank you, sir, for acceding to my request for an interview.”
“Ahem! Hum-m-m!” Cappy looked belligerent. “Sit down, Mr. Peck.”
Mr. Peck sat down, but as he crossed to the chair beside Cappy’s desk, the old gentleman noticed that his visitor walked with a slight limp, and that his left forearm had been amputated half way to the elbow. To the observant Cappy, the American Legion button in Mr. Peck’s lapel told the story.
“Well, Mr. Peck,” he queried gently, “what can I do for you?”
“I’ve called for my job,” the veteran replied briefly.
“By the Holy Pink-toed Prophet!” Cappy ejaculated, “you say that like a man who doesn’t expect to be refused.”
“Quite right, sir. I do not anticipate a refusal.”
“Why?”
Mr. William E. Peck’s engaging but somewhat plain features rippled into the most compelling smile Cappy Ricks had ever seen. “I am a salesman, Mr. Ricks,” he replied. “I know that statement to be true because I have demonstrated, over a period of five years, that I can sell my share of anything that has a hockable value. I have always found, however, that before proceeding to sell goods I had to sell the manufacturer of those goods something, to-wit—myself! I am about to sell myself to you.”
“Son,” said Cappy smilingly, “you win. You’ve sold me already. When did they sell you a membership in the military forces of the United States of America?”
“On the morning of April 7th, 1917, sir.”
“That clinches our sale. I soldiered with the Knights of Columbus at Camp Kearny myself, but when they refused to let me go abroad with my division my heart was broken, so I went over the hill.”
That little touch of the language of the line appeared to warm Mr. Peck’s heart considerably, establishing at once a free masonry between them.
“I was with the Portland Lumber Company, selling lumber in the Middle West before the war,” he explained. “Uncle Sam gave me my sheepskin at Letterman General Hospital last week, with half disability on my ten thousand dollars’ worth of government insurance. Whittling my wing was a mere trifle, but my broken leg was a long time mending, and now it’s shorter than it really ought to be. And I developed pneumonia with influenza and they found some T. B. indications after that. I’ve been at the government tuberculosis hospital at Fort Bayard, New Mexico, for a year. However, what’s left of me is certified to be sound. I’ve got five inches chest expansion and I feel fine.”
“Not at all blue or discouraged?” Cappy hazarded.
“Oh, I got off easy, Mr. Ricks. I have my head left—and my right arm. I can think and I can write, and even if one of my wheels is flat, I can hike longer and faster after an order than most. Got a job for me, Mr. Ricks?”
“No, I haven’t, Mr. Peck. I’m out of it, you know. Retired ten years ago. This office is merely a headquarters for social frivolity—a place to get my mail and mill over the gossip of the street. Our Mr. Skinner is the chap you should see.”
“I have seen Mr. Skinner, sir,” the erstwhile warrior replied, “but he wasn’t very sympathetic. I think he jumped to the conclusion that I was attempting to trade him my empty sleeve. He informed me that there wasn’t sufficient business to keep his present staff of salesmen busy, so then I told him I’d take anything, from stenographer up. I’m the champion one-handed typist of the United States Army. I can tally lumber and bill it. I can keep books and answer the telephone.”
“No encouragement, eh?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, now, son,” Cappy informed his cheerful visitor confidentially, “you take my tip and see my son-in-law, Captain Peasley. He’s high, low and jack-in-the-game in the shipping end of our business.”
“I have also interviewed Captain Peasley. He was very kind. He said he felt that he owed me a job, but business is so bad he couldn’t make a place for me. He told me he is now carrying a dozen ex-service men merely because he hasn’t the heart to let them go. I believe him.”
“Well, my dear boy—my dear young friend! Why do you come to me?”
“Because,” Mr. Peck replied smilingly, “I want you to go over their heads and give me a job. I don’t care a hoot what it is, provided I can do it. If I can do it, I’ll do it better than it was ever done before, and if I can’t do that I’ll quit to save you the embarrassment of firing me. I’m not an object of charity, but I’m scarcely the man I used to be and I’m four years behind the procession and have to catch up. I have the best of references____”
“I see you have,” Cappy cut in blandly, and pressed the push-button on his desk. Mr. Skinner entered. He glanced disapprovingly at William E. Peck and then turned inquiring eyes toward Cappy Ricks.
“Skinner, dear boy,” Cappy purred amiably, “I’ve been thinking over the proposition to send Andrews out to the Shanghai office, and I’ve come to this conclusion. We’ll have to take a chance. At the present time that office is in charge of a stenographer, and we’ve got to get a manager on the job without further loss of time. So I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll send Andrews out on the next boat, but inform him that his position is temporary. Then if he doesn’t make good out there we can take him back into this office, where he is a most valuable man. Meanwhile—ahem! hum-m-m! Harumph!—meanwhile, you’d oblige me greatly, Skinner, my dear boy, if you would consent to take this young man into your office and give him a good work-out to see the stuff he’s made of. As a favor to me, Skinner, my dear boy, as a favor to me.”
Mr. Skinner, in the language of the sporting world, was down for the count—and knew it. Young Mr. Peck knew it too, and smiled graciously upon the general manager, for young Mr. Peck had been in the army, where one of the first great lessons to be assimilated is this: that the commanding general’s request is always tantamount to an order.
“Very well, sir,” Mr. Skinner replied coldly. “Have you arranged the compensation to be given Mr. Peck?”
Cappy threw up a deprecating hand. “That detail is entirely up to you, Skinner. Far be it from me to interfere in the internal administration of your department. Naturally you will pay Mr. Peck what he is worth and not a cent more.” He turned to the triumphant Peck. “Now, you listen to me, young feller. If you think you’re slipping gracefully into a good thing, disabuse your mind of that impression right now. You’ll step right up to the plate, my son, and you’ll hit the ball fairly on the nose, and you’ll do it early and often. The first time you tip a foul, you’ll be warned. The second time you do it you’ll get a month’s lay-off to think it over, and the third time you’ll be out—for keeps. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do, sir,” Mr. Peck declared happily. “All I ask is fighting room and I’ll hack my way into Mr. Skinner’s heart. Thank you, Mr. Skinner, for consenting to take me on. I appreciate your action very, very much and shall endeavor to be worthy of your confidence.”
“Young scoundrel! In-fer-nal young scoundrel!” Cappy murmured to himself. “He has a sense of humor, thank God! Ah, poor old narrow-gauge Skinner! If that fellow ever gets a new or unconventional thought in his stodgy head, it’ll kill him overnight. He’s hopping mad right now, because he can’t say a word in his own defense, but if he doesn’t make hell look like a summer holiday for Mr. Bill Peck, I’m due to be mercifully chloroformed. Good Lord, how empty life would be if I couldn’t butt in and raise a little riot every once in so often.”
Young Mr. Peck had risen and was standing at attention. “When do I report for duty, sir?” he queried of Mr. Skinner.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Skinner retorted with a wintry smile. Mr. Peck glanced at a cheap wrist watch. “It’s twelve o’clock now,” he soliloquized aloud. “I’ll pop out, wrap myself around some rations and report on the job at one P. M. I might just as well knock out half a day’s pay.” He glanced at Cappy Ricks and quoted:
“Count that day lost whose low descending sun
Finds prices shot to glory and business done for fun.”
Unable to maintain his composure in the face of such levity during office hours, Mr. Skinner withdrew, still wrapped in his sub-Antarctic dignity. As the door closed behind him, Mr. Peck’s eyebrows went up in a manner indicative of apprehension.
“I’m off to a bad start, Mr. Ricks,” he opined.
“You only asked for a start,” Cappy piped back at him. “I didn’t guarantee you a good start, and I wouldn’t because I can’t. I can only drive Skinner and Matt Peasley so far—and no farther. There’s always a point at which I quit—er—ah—William.”
“More familiarly known as Bill Peck, sir.”
“Very well, Bill.” Cappy slid out to the edge of his chair and peered at Bill Peck balefully over the top of his spectacles. “I’ll have my eye on you, young feller,” he shrilled. “I freely acknowledge our indebtedness to you, but the day you get the notion in your head that this office is an old soldiers’ home—” He paused thoughtfully. “I wonder what Skinner will pay you?” he mused. “Oh, well,” he continued, “whatever it is, take it and say nothing and when the moment is propitious—and provided you’ve earned it—I’ll intercede with the danged old relic and get you a raise.”
“Thank you very much, sir. You are most kind. Good-day, sir.”
And Bill Peck picked up his hat and limped out of The Presence. Scarcely had the door closed behind him than Mr. Skinner re-entered Cappy Ricks’ lair. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cappy silenced him with an imperious finger.
“Not a peep out of you, Skinner, my dear boy,” he chirped amiably. “I know exactly what you’re going to say and I admit your right to say it, but—ah—ahem! Harumph-h-h!—now, Skinner, listen to reason. How the devil could you have the heart to reject that crippled ex-soldier? There he stood, on one sound leg, with his left sleeve tucked into his coat pocket and on his homely face the grin of an unwhipped, unbeatable man. But you—blast your cold, unfeeling soul, Skinner!—looked him in the eye and turned him down like a drunkard turns down near-beer. Skinner, how could you do it?”
Undaunted by Cappy’s admonitory finger, Mr. Skinner struck a distinctly defiant attitude.
“There is no sentiment in business,” he replied angrily. “A week ago last Thursday the local posts of the American Legion commenced their organized drive for jobs for their crippled and unemployed comrades, and within three days you’ve sawed off two hundred and nine such jobs on the various corporations that you control. The gang you shipped up to the mill in Washington has already applied for a charter for a new post to be known as Cappy Ricks Post No. 534. And you had experienced men discharged to make room for these ex-soldiers.”
“You bet I did,” Cappy yelled triumphantly. “It’s always Old Home Week in every logging camp and saw-mill in the Northwest for I. W. W.’s and revolutionary communists. I’m sick of their unauthorized strikes and sabotage, and by the Holy Pink-toed Prophet, Cappy Ricks Post No. 534, American Legion, is the only sort of back-fire I can think of to put the Wobblies on the run.”
“Every office and ship and retail yard could be run by a first-sergeant,” Skinner complained. “I’m thinking of having reveille and retreat and bugle calls and Saturday morning inspections. I tell you, sir, the Ricks interests have absorbed all the old soldiers possible and at the present moment those interests are overflowing with glory. What we want are workers, not talkers. These ex-soldiers spend too much time fighting their battles over again.”
“Well, Comrade Peck is the last one I’ll ask you to absorb, Skinner,” Cappy promised contritely. “Ever read Kipling’s Barrack Room Ballads, Skinner?”
“I have no time to read,” Mr. Skinner protested.
“Go up town this minute and buy a copy and read one ballad entitled ‘Tommy,’” Cappy barked. “For the good of your immortal soul,” he added.
“Well, Comrade Peck doesn’t make a hit with me, Mr. Ricks. He applied to me for a job and I gave him his answer. Then he went to Captain Matt and was refused, so, just to demonstrate his bad taste, he went over our heads and induced you to pitchfork him into a job. He’ll curse the day he was inspired to do that.”
“Skinner! Skinner! Look me in the eye! Do you know why I asked you to take on Bill Peck?”
“I do. Because you’re too tender-hearted for your own good.”
“You unimaginative dunderhead! You jibbering jackdaw! How could I reject a boy who simply would not be rejected? Why, I’ll bet a ripe peach that Bill Peck was one of the doggondest finest soldiers you ever saw. He carries his objective. He sized you up just like that, Skinner. He declined to permit you to block him. Skinner, that Peck person has been opposed by experts. Yes, sir—experts! What kind of a job are you going to give him, Skinner, my dear boy?”
“Andrews’ job, of course.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Skinner, dear boy, haven’t we got about half a million feet of skunk spruce to saw off on somebody?” Mr. Skinner nodded and Cappy continued with all the naïve eagerness of one who has just made a marvelous discovery, which he is confident will revolutionize science. “Give him that stinking stuff to peddle, Skinner, and if you can dig up a couple of dozen carloads of red fir or bull pine in transit, or some short or odd-length stock, or some larch ceiling or flooring, or some hemlock random stock—in fact, anything the trade doesn’t want as a gift—you get me, don’t you, Skinner?”
Mr. Skinner smiled his swordfish smile. “And if he fails to make good—au revoir, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose so, although I hate to think about it. On the other hand, if he makes good he’s to have Andrews’ salary. We must be fair, Skinner. Whatever our faults we must always be fair.” He rose and patted the general manager’s lean shoulder. “There, there, Skinner, my boy. Forgive me if I’ve been a trifle—ah—ahem!—precipitate and—er—harumph-h-h! Skinner, if you put a prohibitive price on that skunk fir, by the Holy Pink-toed Prophet, I’ll fire you! Be fair, boy, be fair. No dirty work, Skinner. Remember, Comrade Peck has half of his left forearm buried in France.”
Foreword copyright © 2020 by Joel Fotinos
