Cappy reached into his desk and produced a little loose-leaf memorandum book, and from certain figures therein contained he commenced to figure what he should charge Matt for the ship.  On his part, Matt, whose apprenticeship under the Blue Star had made him tolerably familiar with every steamer in the fleet, got out a pad and pencil and commenced to figure the cost of operation himself.  Not knowing the cost of the steamer or the ratio of profit Cappy might expect on the investment, however, he was more or less at sea until Cappy had named his figures; whereupon Matt pretended to do some more figuring.  Finally he frowned and said: 

“Fifty dollars a day too much.”

He did not know a thing about it, but he knew Cappy Ricks well enough to know that Cappy would first decide on his minimum price and then add a hundred dollars a day for good measure; hence, Yankeelike, Matt commenced to chaffer, with the result that before he left the office Cappy had abated his price fifty dollars a day and given Matt a forty-eight-hour option on the vessel, agreeing to charter her to him at the figures specified, contingent on Matt’s ability to recharter her to a responsible firm.

Cappy chuckled as Matt Peasley left the office.

“You’re taking a pretty big bite, Matt,” he soliloquized; “so I’ll handicap you.  And if anything goes wrong, and you fail to collect from your people, I’ll give you a lesson in high finance that you’ll never forget, young man!  I’ll bet my immortal soul you’re going to try to do business with Morrow & Company; and if that outfit isn’t scheduled for involuntary bankruptcy, then I’m a Chinaman.  A charter for a year, eh?  They’ll never last a year.  They’ll bust, owing you a month’s charter money, Matthew, and the vessel will be at sea, most likely, or in a South American port, when that happens; and you can’t throw her back on me until you deliver her in her home port.  And meantime your charter to me keeps rambling right along, and I’ll attach your bankroll if you’re a day late with your payment in advance.  Yes, sir; I’ll break you in two for the good of your immortal soul.  Matt—­Matt, my son—­something tells me you’re monkeying with fire and liable to get burned.”

From Cappy Ricks’ office Matt Peasley called on Kelton of Morrow & Company.  Kelton, a shrewd, double-action sort of person and the smartest shipping man on the street, looked with frank curiosity at Matt’s modest card.

“Pacific Shipping Company, eh?  That’s a new one on me, Captain Peasley,” he said.

“It’s a new one on me also,” Matt replied humorously; “in fact, it is too recent to be very well known.  We’ve been operating a fleet of windjammers, with auxiliary power, down on the Mexican Coast,” he added truthfully, calm in the knowledge that two schooners constitute a fleet if one be not inclined to split conversational hairs; “but we sold them and decided to go into the steamship business.  We hope to buy or build a line of freighters to run to Atlantic Coast ports via the Panama Canal.”