Cappy Ricks Retires | Page 2

to ten tons of coal less per day."
"Hum! So you're going to give him the job for telling you something
our own port engineer would have told us after an examination."
"No, sir, I'm going to give him the job because he has earned it. He
gave me some very valuable information about the wretched condition
of her electric-light plant and a crack, cunningly concealed, in the after
web of her crank shaft--"
"Oh, by thunder," piped Cappy, "that's worth knowing! Ship a new
crank shaft, Matt, and save the Blue Star a salvage bill sooner or later."
"All that inside information will not only save us money in the future,"
Matt continued, "but it enabled me to drive a closer bargain when
dealing with MacCandless, of the Oriental Steamship Company.
Consequently Terence Reardon gets the job. He's only making a
hundred and fifty dollars a month in the Arab, and as he is a rattling
good man--I've looked him up, sir--I've promised him a hundred and
seventy-five a month in the Narcissus."
"Oh, you've already promised him the job, eh? Mistake, Matt, serious
mistake. You say you looked him up, but I'll bet you a new hat there is
one thing about him that you failed to investigate, and that is: What
kind of Irish is he?"
"Why, regular Irish, of course--mighty good Irish, I should say. Keen,
observing, not too talkative, a hard worker, temperate in his habits and
a crackajack engineer to boot."
Cappy settled back wearily in his chair and favored his youthful partner
with a glance of tolerant amusement.
"Matt," he announced, "those are the qualifications we look for in an
engineer, and it's been my experience that the Irish and the Scotch
make the best marine engineers in the world. But when you've been in
the shipping game as long as I have, young man, you'll know better
than to pick two Irishmen as departmental chiefs in the same ship! I did
it--once. There was a red-headed scoundrel named Dennis O'Leary who
went from A.B. to master in the Florence Ricks. That fellow was a
bulldog. He made up his mind he was going to be master of the
Florence and I couldn't stop him. Good man--damned good! And there
was a black Irishman, John Rooney, in the Amelia Ricks. Had
ambitions just like O'Leary. He went from oiler to first assistant in the
Amelia. Fine man--damned fine! So fine, in fact, that when the chief of

the Florence died I shifted Rooney to her immediately. And what was
the result? Why, riot, of course. Matt, the Irish will fight anybody and
anything, but they'll fight quicker, with less excuse and greater delight,
among themselves, than any other nationality! The Florence Ricks
carried a million feet of lumber, but she wasn't big enough for Rooney
and O'Leary, so I fired them both, not being desirous of playing
favorites. Naturally, each blamed the other for the loss of his job, and
without a word having been spoken they went out on the dock and
fought the bloodiest draw I have ever seen on the San Francisco
waterfront. After they had been patched up at the Harbor Hospital, both
came and cussed me and told me I was an ingrate, so I hired them both
back again, put them in different ships, slipped each of them a good,
cheerful Russian Finn, and saved funeral expenses. That's what I got,
Matt, for not asking those two what kind of Irish they were. Now, then,
sonny, once more. What kind of Irish is Terence Rearden?"
"Why, I don't know, I tell you. He's just Irish."
Cappy lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if praying for the great gift of
patience.
"Listen to the boy," he demanded of an imaginary bystander. "He
doesn't know! Well, stick your head down over his engine-room grating
some day, sing The Boyne Wather--and find out! Now, then, do you
happen to know what kind of Irish Mike Murphy is? You ought to. You
were shipmates with him in the Retriever long enough."
"Oh, Mike's from Galway. He goes to mass on Sunday when he can."
"Hum! If he's from Galway, where did he leave his brogue? He runs to
the broad a like an Englishman."
"That's easily explained. Mike left his brogue in Galway. He came to
this country when he was six years old and was raised in Boston. That's
where he picked up his broad a."
"That doesn't help a bit, Matt. He's Irish just the same, and what a
Yankee like you don't know about the Irish would fill a book. You
know, Matt, there are a few rare white men that can handle Chinamen
successfully; now and then you'll run across one that can handle
niggers; but I