Cappy Ricks Retires | Page 3

have never yet met anybody who could figure the mental
angles of the Irish except an Irishman. There's something in an
Irishman that drives him into the bandwagon. He's got to be the boss,
and if he can't be the boss he'll sit round and criticize. But if I want a

man to handle Chinamen, or niggers, or Japs, or Bulgarians I'll
advertise for an Irishman and take the first one that shows up. A young
man like you, Matt, shouldn't monkey with these people. They're a
wonderful race and very much misunderstood, and if you don't start 'em
right on the job you'll always be in trouble. Now, Matt, I've always
done the hiring and firing for the Blue Star Navigation Company, and
as a result I've had blamed little of it to do, considering the size of our
fleet; consequently I'll just give these two Harps the Double-O. Have
Murphy and Reardon at the office at nine o'clock to-morrow morning
and I'll read them the riot act before turning them to."

CHAPTER II

Cappy Ricks was at his office at eight-fifty the following morning. At
eight-fifty-two Mr. Terence Reardon, plainly uncomfortable in a
ready-made blue-serge Sunday suit purchased on the Embarcadero for
twenty-five dollars, came into the office. He was wearing a celluloid
collar, and a quite noticeable rattle as he shook hands with Cappy Ricks
betrayed the fact that he also was wearing celluloid cuffs; for,
notwithstanding the fact that he bathed twice a day, Mr. Reardon's
Hibernian hide contained much of perspiration, coal dust, metal grit
and lubricating oil, and such substances can always be washed off
celluloid collars and cuffs. To his credit be it known that Terence
Reardon knew his haberdashery was not au fait, for his wife never
failed to remind him of it; but unfortunately he was the possessor of a
pair of grimy hands that nothing on earth could ever make clean, and
even when he washed them in benzine they always left black thumb
prints on a linen collar during the process of adjustment. He had long
since surrendered to his fate.
At eight-fifty-four Mike Murphy arrived. Murphy was edging up into
the forties, but still he was young enough at heart to take a keen interest
in his personal appearance, and a tailor who belonged to Michael's
council of the Knights of Columbus had decked him out in a suit of
English tweeds of the latest cut and in most excellent taste.
"Good morning, captain," Cappy Ricks greeted him. "Ahead of time as

usual. Meet Mr. Terence Reardon, late chief of the Arab. He is to be a
shipmate of yours--chief of the Narcissus, you know.
"Mr. Reardon, shake hands with Captain Mike Murphy. Captain
Murphy has been in our employ a number of years as master of sail.
The Narcissus will be his first command in steam."
"Terence Reardon, eh?" echoed Mike Murphy pleasantly. "That sounds
like a good name. Glad to meet you, chief. What part of the old country
are you from? The West?"
The wish was father to the thought, since Mike was from the West
himself.
"I'm from the Nort'--from Belfast," Mr. Reardon replied in a deep
Kerry brogue, and extended a grimy paw upon the finger of which
Mike Murphy observed a gold ring that proclaimed Mr. Terence
Reardon--an Irishman, presumably a Catholic--one who had risen to the
third degree in Freemasonry.
Cappy Ricks saw that ring also, and started visibly. A Knight Templar
himself, Terence Reardon was the last person on earth in whom he
expected to find a brother Mason. He glanced at Mike Murphy and saw
that the skipper was looking, not at Mr. Reardon, but at the Masonic
emblem.
"Sit down, chief," Cappy hastened to interrupt. "Have a chair, captain.
Mr. Reardon, my son-in-law, Captain Peasley here, tells me you were
chief of the Narcissus when she was on the China run for the Oriental
Steamship Company."
Mr. Reardon sat down heavily, set his derby hat on the floor beside him
and replied briefly: "I was."
Captain Murphy excused himself and drew Matt Peasley out of the
room. "God knows," he whispered hoarsely, "religion should never
enter into the working of a ship, and I suppose I'll have to get along
with that fellow; but did you mark the Masonic ring on the paw of the
Far-Down? And on the right hand, too! The jackass don't know enough
to wear it on his left hand."
"Why, what's wrong about being a Mason?" Matt protested. "Cappy's a
Mason and so am I."
"Nothing wrong about it--with you and Cappy Ricks. That's your
privilege. You're Protestants."
"Well, maybe the chief's a Protestant, too," Matt suggested, but Mike

Murphy silenced him with a sardonic smile.
"With that name?" he queried, and laughed the