Cappy Ricks Retires | Page 4

brief, mirthless laugh of
the man who knows. "And he says he's from Belfast! Man, I could cut
that Kerry brogue with a belaying pin."
"Why, Mike," Matt interrupted, "I never before suspected you were
intolerant of a shipmate's private convictions. I must say this attitude of
yours is disturbing."
"Why, I'm not a bigot," Murphy protested virtuously. "Who told you
that?"
"Why, you're a Catholic, and you resent Reardon because he's a
Protestant."
"Not a bit of it. You're a Protestant, and don't I love you like a
brother?"
Matt thought he saw the light. "Oh, I see," he replied. "It's because
Reardon is an Irish Protestant."
"Almost--but not quite. God knows I hate the Orangemen for what they
did to me and mine, but at least they've been Protestant since the time
of Henry VIII. But the lad inside there has no business to be a
Protestant. The Lord intended him for a Catholic--and he knows it. He's
a renegade. I don't blame you for being a Protestant, Matt. It's none of
my business."
Matt Peasley had plumbed the mystery at last. He had been reading a
good deal in the daily papers about Home Rule for Ireland, the Irish
Nationalists, the Ulster Volunteers, the Unionists, and so on, and in a
vague way he had always understood that religious differences were at
the bottom of it all. He realized now that it was something deeper than
that--a relic of injustice and oppression; a hostility that had come to
Mike Murphy as a heritage from his forbears--something he had
imbibed at his mother's breast and was, for purposes of battle, a more
vital issue than the interminable argument about the only safe road to
heaven.
"I see," Matt murmured. "Reardon, being Irish, has violated the
national code of the Irish--"
"You've said it, Matt. They're Tories at heart, every mother's son of
them."
"What do you mean--Tories?"
"That they're for England, of course."

"Well, I don't blame them. So am I. Aren't you, Mike?"
"May God forgive you," Mike Murphy answered piously. "I am not.
I'm for their enemies. I'm for anything that's against England. Ireland is
not a colony. She's a nation. Man, man, you don't understand. Only an
Irishman can, and he gets it at his mother's or his grandmother's
knee--the word-of-mouth history of his people, the history that isn't in
the books! Do you think I can forget? Do you think I want to forget?"
"No," Matt Peasley replied quietly; "I think you'll have to forget-- in so
far as Terence Reardon is concerned. This is the land of the free and the
home of the brave, and even when you're outside the three-mile limit I
want you to remember, Mike, that the good ship Narcissus is under the
American flag. The Narcissus needs all her space for cargo, Mike.
There is no room aboard her for a feud. Don't ever poke your nose into
Terence Reardon's engine-room except on his invitation or for the
purpose of locating a leak. Treat him with courtesy and do not discuss
politics or religion when you meet him at table, which will be about the
only opportunity you two will have to discuss anything; and if Reardon
wants to talk religion or politics you change your feeding time and
avoid meeting him. I've taken you out of the old _Retriever,_ Mike,
where you've been earning a hundred and twenty-five dollars a month,
to put you in the Narcissus at two hundred and fifty. That is conclusive
evidence that I'm for you. But Terence Reardon is a crackajack chief
engineer, and I want you to remember that the Blue Star Navigation
Company needs him in its business quite as much as it needs Michael J.
Murphy, and if you two get scrapping I'm not going to take the trouble
to investigate and place the blame. I'll just call you both up on the
carpet and make you draw straws to see who quits."
"Fair enough," replied the honest Murphy. "If I can't be good I'll be as
good as I can."
At that very instant Cappy Ricks was just discovering what kind of
Irish Mr. Terence Reardon was.
The most innocent remark brought him the information he sought.
"Captain Murphy, whom you have just met, is to be master of the
_Narcissus,_ chief," he explained. "He's a splendid fellow personally
and a most capable navigator, and like you he's Irish. I'm sure you'll get
along famously together."
Cappy tried to smile away his apprehension, for a still small voice

whispered to him and questioned the right of Terence Reardon to call
him brother.
Mr. Reardon's sole reply to this optimistic prophecy was a
noncommittal grunt, accompanied by a slight outthrust and uplift of the
chin, a pursing of the lips and