The Go-Getter | Page 5

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--as--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 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