“Well, I must admit your far-sightedness in that instance will keep the Shanghai office out of the red ink this year,” Matt Peasley replied.  “However, we face this situation, Cappy.  Henderson has drunk and gambled and signed chits in excess of his salary.  He hasn’t attended to business and he’s capped his inefficiency by absconding with our bank account.  We couldn’t foresee that.  When we send a man out to the Orient to be our manager there, we have to trust him all the way or not at all.  So there is no use weeping over spilled milk, Cappy.  Our job is to select a successor to Henderson and send him out to Shanghai on the next boat.”

“Oh, very well, Matt,” Cappy replied magnanimously, “I’ll not rub it into you.  I suppose I’m far from generous, bawling you out like this.  Perhaps, when you’re my age and have a lot of mental and moral cripples nip you and draw blood as often as they’ve drawn it on me you’ll be a better judge than I of men worthy of the weight of responsibility.  Skinner, have you got a candidate for this job?”

“I regret to say, sir, I have not.  All of the men in my department are quite young—­too young for the responsibility.”

“What do you mean—­young?” Cappy blazed.

“Well, the only man I would consider for the job is Andrews and he is too young—­about thirty, I should say.”

“About thirty, eh?  Strikes me you were about twenty-eight when I threw ten thousand a year at you in actual cash, and a couple of million dollars’ worth of responsibility.”

“Yes sir, but then Andrews has never been tested——­”

“Skinner,” Cappy interrupted in his most awful voice, “it’s a constant source of amazement to me why I refrain from firing you.  You say Andrews has never been tested.  Why hasn’t he been tested?  Why are we maintaining untested material in this shop, anyhow?  Eh?  Answer me that.  Tut, tut, tut!  Not a peep out of you, sir.  If you had done your Christian duty, you would have taken a year’s vacation when lumber was selling itself in 1919 and 1920, and you would have left Andrews sitting in at your desk to see the sort of stuff he’s made of.”

“It’s a mighty lucky thing I didn’t go away for a year,” Skinner protested respectfully, “because the market broke—­like that—­and if you don’t think we have to hustle to sell sufficient lumber to keep our own ships busy freighting it—­”

“Skinner, how dare you contradict me?  How old was Matt Peasley when I turned over the Blue Star Navigation Company to him, lock, stock and barrel?  Why, he wasn’t twenty-six years old.  Skinner, you’re a dodo!  The killjoys like you who have straddled the neck of industry and throttled it with absurd theories that a man’s back must be bent like an ox-bow and his locks snowy white before he can be entrusted with responsibility and a living wage, have caused all of our wars and strikes.  This is a young man’s world, Skinner, and don’t you ever forget it.  The go-getters of this world are under thirty years of age.  Matt,” he concluded, turning to his son-in-law, “what do you think of Andrews for that Shanghai job?”