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."
