 CHAPTER 1 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 Ricks Logging and Lumber 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? Show your sarcasm, young fellow Cappy Shrilled. You know, Dad Blangwell, this 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 raids go to glory, marine engineers go on strike, and every infernal young welp 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 too have forced me 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. Matt Peasley leveled an accusing finger at Capy Ricks. We never argued you into taking over the management of those shipping board boats. We argued me into it. I'm the goat. You have nothing to do with it. You retired ten years ago. All the troubles in the marine end of this shop belong on my capable shoulders, old settler. Theoretically yes, actually no. I hope you do not expect me to abandon mental as well as physical efforts. Great Wampus cats. Am I to be denied a sentimental interest in matters where I have a controlling financial interest? I admit you two boys are running my affairs and ordinarily you run them rather well. But, but, ahum, haram, what's the matter with you, Matt? And you also, Skinner, if Matt makes a mistake it's your job to remind him of it before the results manifest themselves, is it not? And vice versa. Have you two boobs lost your ability to judge men, or did you ever have such ability? You're referring to Henderson of the Shanghai office, I dare say, Mr. Skinner cut in? I am Skinner. And I'm here to remind you that if we stick to our own game, which is coastwise shipping and had left the trans-Pacific field with its general cargos to others, we wouldn't have any Shanghai office at this moment, and we would not be pestered with the Henderson's of the world. He's the best lumber salesman we've ever had, Mr. Skinner defended. I have every hope that he would send us orders for many a cargo for Asiatic delivery. And he had gone through every job in this office, from office boy to sales manager, in the lumber department, and from freight clerk to passenger agent in the navigation company Matt Peasley supplemented. I admit all of that, but did you consult me when you decided to send him out to China on his own? Of course not. I'm boss of the Blue Star navigation company, am I not? The man was in charge of the Shanghai office before you ever opened your mouth to discharge your cargo of free advice. I told you that Henderson wouldn't make good, didn't I? You did, and now I have the opportunity to tell you a little tale. You didn't give me the opportunity to tell you before you sent him out. Henderson was a good man, a crackerjack man, when he had better man over him, but I've been 20 years reducing a tendency on the part of that fellow's head to burst his hat band, and now he's gone south with 130,000 tales of our Shanghai bank account. Permit me to remind you, Mr. Ricks, Mr. Skinner, cut in oddly, that he was bonded to the extent of a quarter of a million dollars. Not a peep out of you, Skinner, not a peep. Permit me to remind you that I'm the little genius who placed that insurance unknown to you and Matt. And I recall, now that I was reminded by you, Matthew, my son, that I had retired ten years ago and pleased what I quit interfering with this internal administration of your office. Well, I must admit, your farsightedness 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 was drunk and gambled and signed chits to the excess of his salary. He hasn't attended to the 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 you have had 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 then. I am men worthy of the weight of responsibility. Skinner, have you gotten 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? Blast? 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 of almost 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 with 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. Tuttuttuttutt. 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 nineteen nineteen and nineteen twenty. And you would have left Andrews sitting in your desk to see what sort of stuff he's made up. 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 significant Lumber to keep our own ships busy freighting it. Skinner, how dare you contradict me. How old was Matt Pesley 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 was straddled the neck of industry, and throttled it with absurd theories that a man's back must be bent like an oxbow and his locked 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 the Shanghai job? I think he'll do. Why do you think he'll do? Because he ought to do. He's been with us long enough and has acquired sufficient experience to enable him. He has acquired the courage to tackle the job, Matt, capy interrupted. That's more important than this dogged experience you and Skinner practice so much about. I know nothing of his courage. I assume he has force and initiative. I know he has a pleasing personality. Well, before you send him out, we ought to know whether or not he has force and initiative. Then, quote Matt Peasley, rising, I wash my hands of the job of selecting Henderson's successor. You butt it in, so I suggest you name the lucky man. Yes, indeed, Skinner agreed. I'm sure it's quite beyond my poor abilities to uncover Andrews' force and initiative on such short notice. He does possess sufficient force and initiative for his present job, but will he possess force and initiative when he has to make a quick decision six thousand miles from expert advice and stand or fall by that decision? That's what we want to know, Skinner. I suggest, sir, Mr. Skinner replied with chill politeness, that you conduct the examination. I accept the nomination, Skinner, by the holy, pink-toed prophet. The next man we send to that Shanghai office is going to be a go-getter. We've had three managers go rotten on us, and that's three too many. And without further ado, Cappy swung his aged legs up on the desk and slid down in his swivel chair until he rested on his spine. His head sank on his breast, and he closed his eyes. He's framing the examination for Andrews, Matt Peasley whispered, as he and Skinner made their exits. CHAPTER II The president emeritus of Rick's interest was not destined to uninterrupted cognition, however. Within ten minutes his private exchange operator called him on the telephone. What is it, Cappy yelled into the transmitter? There is a young man in the general office. His name is Mr. William E. Peck, and he desires to see you personally. Cappy sighed. Very well, he replied. Have him shown in. Almost immediately the office boy ushered Mr. Peck into Cappy's presence. The moment he was fairly inside the door the visitor halted came easily and naturally to attention and bowed respectfully. While the cool glance of his keen blue eyes held steady the autocrat of the Blue Star Navigation Company. Mr. Rick's Peck is my name, sir. William E. Peck, thank you, sir, for accepting to my request for an interview. Cappy looked belligerent. Sit down, Mr. Peck. Mr. Peck sat down, but as he crossed the chair beside Cappy's desk the old gentleman noticed that his visitor walked with a slight limp, and that his left forearm had been amputated halfway to the elbow. To the observant Cappy the American Legion Button on Mr. Peck's lapel told the story. Well, Mr. Pecky queried gently. What can I do for you? I've called for my job, the veteran replied briefly. By the holy pink-toed prophet, Cappy ejaculated, you say that like a man who does not expect to be refused. Quite right, sir. I do not anticipate a refusal. Why? Mr. William E. Peck's engaging but somewhat plain feature rippled into a most compelling smile Cappy Rick's had ever seen. I am a salesman, Mr. Rick's, he replied. I know that statement to be true, because I have demonstrated over a period of five years that I can sell my share of anything that has hawkable value. I have always found, however, that before proceeding to sell goods, I had to sell the manufacture of those goods, something to wit, myself, and I am about to sell myself to you. Son, said Cappy smilingly, you win, you sold me already. When did they sell you a membership in the military forces of the United States of America? On the morning of April 7, 1917, sir, that clenches our sail. I soldiered with the Knights of Columbus at Camp Carney, myself. But when they refused to let me go abroad with my division, my heart was broken. So I went over the hill. That little touch of the language of the line appeared to warm Mr. Peck's heart considerably. Establishing at once a free masonry between them. I was with the Portland Lumber Company selling lumber in the Middle West before the war, he explained. Uncle Sam gave me my sheepskin at Letterman General Hospital last week, with half disability on my ten thousand dollars' worth of government insurance. Whitling my wing was a mere trifle. But my broken leg was a long time mending, and now it's shorter than it really ought to be. And I developed pneumonia with influenza, and they found some TB indications after that. I've been at the government tuberculosis hospital in Fort Bernard, New Mexico, for a year. However, what's left of me is certified to be sound. I've got five inches chest expansion, and I feel fine. Not at all blue or discouraged, cappy, hazarded. Oh, I got off easy, Mr. Ricks. I have my head left and my right arm. I can think and I can right, and even if one of my wheels is flat, I can hike longer and faster after an order than most. Got a job for me, Mr. Ricks? No I haven't, Mr. Peck. I'm out of it, you know. Retired ten years ago, this office is merely a headquarters for social frivolity. A place to get my mail and mill over the gossip of the street. Are Mr. Skinner as the chap you should see? I have seen Mr. Skinner, sir, the erstwhile warrior replied, but he wasn't very sympathetic. I think he jumped to the conclusion that I was attempting to trade him my empty sleeve. He informed me that there wasn't significant business to keep the present staff of salesmen busy, so then I told him I'd take anything from Stenographer up. I'm a champion, one-handed typist of the United States Army. I can tally lumber and bill it. I can keep books, answer the telephone. No encouragement, eh? No, sir. Well my son, cappy, informed his cheerful visitor confidently. You take my tiff and see my son-in-law, Captain Peasley. He's high, low, and jack in the game, in the shipping-end of our business. I have also interviewed Captain Peasley. He was very kind, and he said he felt that he owed me a job, but business was so bad he couldn't make the place for me. He told me he was now carrying a dozen ex-servicemen merely because he hadn't had the heart to let them go. I believe him. Well, my dear boy, my dear young friend, why did you come to me? Because, Mr. Peck replied smilingly, I want you to go over their heads and give me a job. I don't care a hoot what it is provided I can do it. If I can do it better than what has been done before, and if I can't do it I'll quit and save you the embarrassment of firing me. I'm not an object of charity, but I'm scarcely the man I used to be, and I'm four years behind the procession and I have to catch up. I have the best of references. I see you have, Cappy-cut in blandly, and press the push-button on his desk. Mr. Skinner entered. He glanced disapprovingly at William E. Peck and turned inquiring eyes toward Cappy-Ricks. Skinner, dear boy, Cappy-perd amably. I've been thinking over the proposition to send Andrews out to the Shanghai office, and I've come to this conclusion. Well, we'll have to take the chance at the present time. That office is in charge of a stenographer, and we've got to get a manager on the job without any further loss of time. So I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll send Andrews out on the next boat, but inform him that his position is temporary. Then if he doesn't make good out there, we can take him back to this office where he's the most valuable man. Meanwhile, ah-hum, ah-hum. Meanwhile, you'll oblige me greatly, Skinner, my dear boy, if you would consent to take this young man into your office and give him a good work out, to see the stuff he's made out of. As a favor to me, Skinner, my dear boy, as a favor to me. Mr. Skinner, in the language of the sporting world, was down for the count, and he knew it. Mr. Peck knew it, too, and smiled graciously upon the general manager. For young Mr. Peck had been in the army, where he learned one of the great first lessons to be assimilated, is this. That a commanding general's request is always ten amount to an order. Very well, sir, Mr. Skinner replied coldly. Have you arranged for the compensation to be given, Mr. Peck? Cappy flew up a depreciating hand. That detail is entirely up to you, Skinner. Far be it from me to interfere in the internal administration of your department. Naturally you will pay. Mr. Peck what he is worth and not a cent more. He turned to the triumphant Peck. Now you listen to me, young feller. If you think you're slipping gracefully into a good thing, disabuse your mind of that impression right now. You'll step right up to the plate, my son, and you'll hit the ball fairly on the nose, and you'll do it early and often. The first time you tip a foul you'll be warned, the second time you'll get a month's layoff 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 much, and shall endeavor to be worthy of your confidence. Young scoundrel. Infernal young scoundrel. Cappy murmur to himself. He has a sense of humor, thank God. Oh, poor old narrow-gauge Skinner. If that fellow ever gets a new or unconventional thought in his stogey-headed, 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 immersively chloroformed. Good Lord, how empty life would be if I couldn't butt in and raise a little riot every once in so often. 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 the cheap wrist watch. It's twelve o'clock now. He's soliloquy to loud. I'll pop out, wrap myself around some rations, and report to the job at one p.m. I might as well knock out half a day's pay. He glanced at Cappy Ricks and quoted, Count that day lost, whose low, dissenting sun finds prices shot to glory and business done for him, unable to maintain his composure in his face of such levity during office hours Mr. Skinner withdrew, still wrapped in his sub- Antarctic dignity. 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. Heal-pined. You only ask 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 further. It's always to the point at which I quit, or 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 playfully over the top of his spectacles. I'll have my eye on you, young fellow, 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 soldier's 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 when the moment is propitious and provided that you've earned it. I'll intercede with the dangered 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. Only had the door closed behind him, then Mr. Skinner re-entered. Cappy ricks lair. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cappy silenced him with an imperilous finger. Not a peep out of you, Skinner, my dear boy, he chirped amably. I know exactly what you're going to say, and I admit you're right to say it, but ah hum, ah hum. Now, Skinner, listen to reason. How the devil could you ever have the heart to reject that crippled ex-soldier? There he stood on one sound leg, with his left sleeve tucked into his coat pocket, and his homely face of grin, an unwipped 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 distinctively defiant attitude. There's no sentiment in business, he replied angrily. A week ago last Thursday, the local post of the American Legion commenced their organized drive for jobs for their crippled and unemployed comrades, and within three days you've sought off 209 such jobs in 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 Rick's Post 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 every sawmill 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 Rick's, post number 534, American Legion, is the only sort of backfire I can think of to put the wobblies on the run. Every office and ship and retail yard could be run by a first sergeant, Skinner complained. I'm thinking of having Reveille and Retreat and Bugle calls and Saturday morning inspections, I tell you, sir. The Rick's interests have absorbed all the old soldiers possible, and at the present moment those interests are overflowing with glory. What we want are workers, not talkers. These ex-soldiers spend too much time fighting their battles over again. Well, Comrade Peck is the last one I'll ask you to absorb, Skinner, Cappy promised contritely. Ever read Kipling's Barrick Room Ballad, Skinner? I have no time to read, Mr. Skinner protested. Go uptown this moment and buy a copy and read one ballad entitled Tommy. Cappy barked. For the good of your immortal soul, he added. Well, Comrade Peck doesn't make a hit with me, Mr. Rick's. He applied to me for a job and I gave him an answer, and then he went to Captain Matt and was refused. So just to demonstrate his bad taste he went over our heads and induced you to pitch fork him into a job. I'll curse the day he was inspired to do that. Skinner, Skinner, look at me in the eye. Do you know why I ask you to take Bill Peck? I do, because you're too tenderhearted for your own good. You unimaginative dunderhead, gibbering jack-daw, how could I reject a boy who simply would not be rejected? Why, I'll bet a ripe each that Bill Peck was the one of the dog-honest fine soldiers you have ever seen. He carries his objective. He sighs you up just like that Skinner. He declined to permit you to block him, Skinner. That Peck person has been oppressed by experts. Yes, sir, experts. What kind of job are you going to give him, Skinner, my dear boy? Andrew's job, of course. Oh, yes, I forgot. Skinner, my dear boy, haven't we got a half a million feet of skunk spruce to saw off on somebody? Skinner nodded and Cappy continued, with all the naïve eagerness of one who has just made a marvelous discovery, which he is confident will revolutionize science. Give him that stinking stuff to peddle, Skinner, and if he can dig up a couple dozen carloads of red fur or bull pine in transit, or some short or odd-length stock, or some large ceiling or flooring or some hemlock random stock, in fact anything the trade doesn't want as a gift. You'll get me, don't you, Skinner? Mr. Skinner smiled his swordfish smile, and if he fails to make good, Oravare. Yes, I suppose so, although I hate to think about it. On the other hand, if he makes good, he's to have Andrew's salary. We must be fair, Skinner. Whatever our faults we must always be fair. He rose and patted the general manager's lean shoulder. They're there, Skinner, my boy. Forgive me if I've been a trifle. Ahem, ahem, harem, precipitate, and, Skinner, if you put a prohibitive price on that scung fur by the holy pink-toed prophet I'll fire you. Be fair, boy. Be fair. No dirty work, Skinner. Remember, Comrade Peck has half of his left forearm buried in France. CHAPTER III At twelve-thirty, as Cappy was hurrying up California Street to luncheon at the commercial club, he met Bill Peck limping down the sidewalk. The ex-soldier stopped him and handed him a card. What do you think of that, sir, he queried? Isn't it a neat business card? Cappy read. Rick's lumber and lugging company, lumber and its products. Two-four-eight California Street, San Francisco. Represented by William E. Peck. If you can drive nails in it, we have it. Cappy Rick's ran a speculative thumb over Comrade Peck's business card. It was engraved in copper plates or dies and not made in half an hour. By the twelve ragged apostles, this was Cappy's most terrible oath, and he never employed it unless rocked to his very foundations. Bill was one bandit to another. Come clean. When did you first make up your mind to go to work for us? A week ago, Comrade Peck replied blandly. And what was your grade when Kaiser Bill went AWOL? I was a buck. I don't believe you didn't anybody ever offer you anything better, frequently. However, if I had accepted, I would have had to resign the nicest job I ever had. There wasn't much money in it, but it was filled with excitement and interesting experiments. I used to disguise myself as a Christmas tree or a boxcar and pick off German sharpshooters. I was known as Peck's Bad Boy. I was often tempted to quit, but whenever I'd reflect on the number of American lives I was saving daily, a commission was just a scrap of paper to me. If you'd ever started in any other branch of the service, you'd have run John J. Pershing down to Lance Corporal. Bill, listen. Have you ever had any experience selling skunk spruce? Comrade Peck was plainly puzzled. He shook his head. What sort of stock is it, he said? Humboldt County, California, spruce. Its coarse and stringy and wet and heavy, and smells just like a skunk directly after using. I'm afraid Skinner's gonna start you at the bottom, and skunk spruce is it. Can you drive nails into it, Mr. Ricks? Oh, yes. Does anybody ever buy skunk spruce, sir? Oh, occasionally one of our bright young men digs up a half-wit who's willing to try anything once. Otherwise, of course, we would not continue to manufacture it. Fortunately, Bill, we have very little of it. But whenever our woods-boss runs across a good tree, he hasn't had the heart to leave it standing. And as a result, we always have enough skunk spruce on hand to keep our salesmen humble. I can sell anything at a price, Comrade Peck replied, unconcernedly, and continued on his way back to the office. CHAPTER IV For two months, Cappy Ricks saw nothing of Bill Peck. That enterprising veteran had been sent out into the Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas territory. The moment he had familiarized himself with the numerous details regarding freight rates, weights, and the mills he represented, all things which a salesman should be familiar with before he starts out on the road. From Salt Lake City, he wired in an order for two carloads of large rustic, and in Odden he managed to embigle a retail yard with which Mr. Skinner had been trying to do business for years into sampling a carload of skunk spruce boards, random lengths and grades at a dollar above the price given him by Skinner. In Arizona, he worked up some new business by mining timbers. But it was not until he got to the heart of Texas that Comrade Peck really commenced to demonstrate his selling ability. Standard oil derricks were his specialty, and he shot the orders in so fast that Mr. Skinner was forced to wire him for mercy and instruct him to devote his talent to the disposal of cedar shingles and siding, Douglas fir and redwood. Eventually he completed his circle and worked his way home via Los Angeles, pausing, however, in the San Joaquin Valley to sell two more carloads of skunk spruce. When this order was wired in, Mr. Skinner came to cap E. Rick's with the telegram. Well, I must admit, Comrade Peck can sell lumber, he announced grudgingly. He has secured five new accounts, and here is an order for two more carloads of skunk spruce. I'll have to raise his salary about the first of the year. My dear Skinner, why the devil wait until the first of the year? Your pernicious habit of deferring the inevitable parting with your money has cost us the service of more than one good man. You know, you have to raise Comrade Peck's salary sooner or later, so why not do it now and smile like a dentifice advertisement while you're doing it? Comrade Peck will feel a whole lot better as a result, and who knows. He may conclude you're a human being after all and learn to love you. Very well, sir. I'll give him the same salary Andrews was getting before Peck took over his territory. Skinner, you make it impossible for me to refrain from showing you who's boss around here. He's better than Andrews, isn't he? I think he is, sir. Well, then, for the love of a square deal, pay him more, and pay it to him on the first day he went to work. Get out. You make me nervous, by the way. How is Andrews getting along in the Shanghai job? He's helping the cable company pay its income tax. Cables came about three times a week on matters he should decide for himself. Matt Peasley is disgusted with him. Ah, well, I'm not disappointed. And I suppose Matt will be in here before long to remind me that I was the bright boy who picked Andrews for the job. Well, I did, but I call upon you to remember, Skinner, when I'm assailed that Andrews' appointment was temporary. Yes, sir, it was. Well, I suppose I'll have to cast about for his successor and beat Matt out of his cheap old, I told you so. Try him. I think Comrade Peck has some of the earmarks of a good manager for our Shanghai office. But I'll have to test him a little further. He looked up humorously at Mr. Skinner. Skinner, my dear boy, he continued. I'm going to have him deliver a blue vase. Mr. Skinner's cold features actually glowed. Well, tip the chief of police and the proprietor of the store off this time and save yourself some money, he warned Cappy. He walked to the window and looked down California Street. He continued to smile. Yes, Cappy continued dreamily. I think I shall give him the thirty- third degree. You'll agree with me, Skinner, that if he delivers the blue vase he'll be worth ten thousand dollars a year as our Oriental Manager. I'll say he will, Mr. Skinner replied snagly. Very well, then. Arrange matter, Skinner, so that he will be available for me at one o'clock, a week from Sunday. I'll attend to the other details. Mr. Skinner nodded. He was still chuckling when he departed for his own office. CHAPTER V A week from the succeeding Saturday, Mr. Skinner did not come down to the office, but a telephone message from his home informed the chief clerk that Mr. Skinner was at home and somewhat indisposed. The chief clerk was to advise Mr. Peck that he, Mr. Skinner, had contemplated having a conference with the latter that day, but that his indisposition would prevent this. Mr. Skinner hoped to be feeling much better tomorrow, and since he was very desirous of a conference with Mr. Peck before the latter should depart on his next-selling pilgrimage on Monday, would Mr. Peck be good enough to call at Mr. Skinner's home at one o'clock Sunday afternoon? Mr. Peck sent back word that he would be there at the appointed time and was rewarded with Mr. Skinner's thanks via the chief clerk. Promptly at one o'clock the following day, Bill Peck reported at the general manager's house. He found Mr. Skinner in bed reading the paper and looking surprisingly well. He trusted Mr. Skinner felt better than he looked. Mr. Skinner did, and at once entered into a discussion of the new customer's other prospects he particularly desired Mr. Peck to approach. New business to be investigated in further details without end, and the midst of the conference Cappy Rick's telephoned. A portable telephone stood on the commode beside Mr. Skinner's bed, so the latter answered immediately. Comrade Peck watched Skinner listen attentively for fully two minutes, then heard him say, Mr. Rick's I'm very sorry I'd love to do this errand for you, but really I'm under the weather. In fact, I'm in bed, as I speak to you now. But Mr. Peck is here with me, and I'm sure he'll be very happy to attend to the matter for you. By all means, Bill Peck hastened to assure the general manager. Who does Mr. Rick's one killed? And where should I have the body delivered? Ha, ha, ha! Mr. Skinner had a singularly annoying, merciless laugh, as if he begrudged himself such an unheard of indulgence. Mr. Peck says, he informed Cappy, that he'll be delighted to attend to the matter for you. He wants to know whom you want killed and where you wish the body delivered. Ha, ha! Peck, Mr. Rick's will speak to you. Bill Peck took the telephone. Good afternoon, Mr. Rick's. Hello, old soldier, what are you doing this afternoon? Nothing, after I conclude my conference with Mr. Skinner. By the way, he has just given me a most handsome boost in salary for which I am most appreciative. I feel, however, despite Mr. Skinner's graciousness, that you have put in a kind word for me with him, and I want to thank you. To toot. Not a peep out of you, sir, not a peep. You get nothing for nothing from Skinner, or me. However, in view of the fact that you're feeling kindly toward me this late afternoon, I wish you'd do a little errand for me. I can't send a boy, and I hate to make a messenger out of you. Or, um, um, that is up. I have no false pride, Mr. Rick's. Thank you, Bill. Glad you feel that way about it. Bill, I was prowling around town this four noon after church, and down in a store on Sutter Street between Stockholm and Powell Street on the right-hand side. As you face Market Street, I saw a blue vase in the window. I have a weakness for vases, Bill. I'm a sharp on them, too. Now this vase I saw isn't very expensive as vases go. In fact, I wouldn't buy it for my collection. But one of the finest and sweetest ladies of my acquaintance has the mate to that blue vase I saw in the window, and I know she'd be prouder than Punch if she had two of them, one for each side of her drawing-romantle, understand? Now I'm leaving from the Southern Pacific Depot at eight o'clock tonight bound for Santa Barbara to attend her wedding anniversary tomorrow night. I forget what anniversary it is, Bill, but I have been informed by my daughter that I'll be very much detrop if I send any present other than something in porcelain or china or chrysanay. Well, Bill, this crazy little blue vase just fills the order, understand? Yes, sir. You feel that it would be most graceful on your part if you could bring this little blue vase down to Santa Barbara with you tonight. You have to have it tonight, because if you wait until the store opens on Monday the vase will reach your hostess twenty-four hours after her anniversary party. Exactly, Bill. Now I've simply got to have that vase. If I had discovered it yesterday I wouldn't be asking you to get it for me today, Bill. Please don't make any explanations or apologies, Mr. Ricks. You have described the vase. No, you haven't. What sort of blue is it? How tall is it? And what is approximately its greatest diameter? Does it sit on a base or does it not? Is it solid blue or is it figured? It's a chrysanay vase, Bill. Sort of old Dutch blue or delt, with some Oriental funny business on it. I couldn't describe it exactly, but it has some birds and flowers on it. It's about a foot tall and four inches in diameter, and it sets on a teakwood base. Very well, sir. You shall have it. And you'll deliver it to me in State Room A, Car 7, aboard the train at third in Townsend Street at 7.35 tonight. Yes, sir. Thank you, Bill. The expense will be trifling. Collect it from the cash here in the morning and tell him to charge it to my account. And Cappy hung up. At once Mr. Skinner took up the thread of the interrupted conference, and it was not until three o'clock that Bill Peck left his house and proceeded downtown to locate Cappy's blue vase. He proceeded to the block in Sutter Street, between Stockton and Powell Streets, and although he walked patiently up one side of the street and down the other, not a single vase of any description showed in any shop window, nor could he find a single shop where such a vase, as Cappy had described, might, per chance, be displayed for sale. I think the old boy has erred in his coordinates of the target, Bill Peck concluded, or else I misunderstood him. I'll telephone his house and ask him to repeat them. He did, but nobody was home, except a Swedish maid. And all she knew that Mr. Ricks was out, and the hour of his return was unknown. So Mr. Peck went back to Sutter Street and scoured, once more every shop window in the block. Then he scouted two blocks above Powell and two blocks below Stockton. Still the blue vase remained invisible. So he transferred his search to a corresponding area on Bush Street, and when that failed he went painstakingly over four blocks of Post Street. He was still without results when he moved one block further west, and one further south and discovered the blue vase in a huge plate glass window of a shop on Geary Street, near Grant Avenue. He surveyed it critically, and was convinced that it was the object he saw. He tried the door, but it was locked, as he had anticipated it would be, so he kicked the door and raised an infernal racket, hoping against hope that the noise might bring a watchman from the rear of the building. In vain he backed out to the edge of the sidewalk and read the sign over the door. B. Cohen's Art Shop This was a start, so Mr. Peck limped over to the Palace Hotel and procured a telephone directory. By actual count there were nineteen B. Cohen scattered throughout the city. So before commencing to call the nineteen, Bill Peck borrowed the city directory from the hotel clerk and scanned it for the particular B. Cohen who owned the art shop. His search availed him nothing. B. Cohen was listed as an art dealer at the address, where the blue vase reposed in the window. That was all. I suppose he's a commuter, Mr. Peck concluded, and at once proceeded to procure directories of the adjacent cities of Berkeley, Oakland, and Alameda. They were not available, so in despair he changed a dollar into five sin pieces, sought a telephone booth, and commenced calling up all of the B. Cohen's in San Francisco. Of the nineteen, four did not answer. Three were temporarily disconnected. Six replied in Yiddish. Five were not the B. Cohen he sought, and one swore he was Irish, and that his name was spelled Kohan, and pronounced with an accent on both syllables. The B. Cohen's resident in Berkeley, Oakland, and Alameda, San Rafael, Sausalito, Mill Valley, San Mateo, Redwood City, and Palo Alto were next telephoned to, and whom this long and expensive task was done, ex-private Bill Peck emerged from the telephone booth, ringing wet with perspiration, and as irritable as a clucking hand. Once outside the hotel he raised his haggard face to heaven, and dumbly queried the Almighty what he might be saving him from a quick death on the field of honor, only to condemn him to be talked to death by B. Cohen's in civil life. It was now six o'clock. Suddenly Bill Peck had an inspiration. Was the name spelled Cohen, Kohan, Kohn, Kohn, or Kohn? If I have to take a Jewish census again tonight, I'll die. He told himself, desperately, and went back to the art shop. The sign read B. Cohen's Art Shop. I wish I knew a bootlegger's joint. Poor Peck complained. I'm pretty far gone, and a little wood alcohol wouldn't hurt me much now. Why, I could have sworn the name was spelled with an E. It seems to me I noted that particularly. He went back to the hotel telephone booth, and commenced calling up all the B. Cohen's in town. There were eight of them. Six of them were out. One was maudlin with liquor, and the other was very deaf and shouted unintelligibly. These habits, barbituates, no less than war, Mr. Peck sighed. He changed a twenty-dollar bill into nickels, dimes, and quarters, returned to the hot, ill-smelling telephone booth, and proceeded to lay down a barrage of telephone calls to the B. Cohen's of all towns of any important contiguous to San Francisco Bay. And he was lucky. On the sixth call he located the particular B. Cohen in San Rafael, only to be informed by Mr. Cohen's cook that Mr. Cohen was dining at the home of Mr. Simons in Mill Valley. There were three Mr. Simons in Mill Valley, and Peck called them all before commencing with the right one. Yes, Mr. B. Cohen was there, who wished to speak to him. Mr. Heck? Oh, Mr. Lake? A silence. Then Mr. Cohen says he doesn't know any Mr. Lake and wants to know the nature of your business. He is dining and doesn't like to be disturbed unless the matter is of grave importance. Tell him Mr. Peck wishes to speak with him on the matter of great importance, wailed the ex-private. Mr. Metz? Mr. Ben Metz? No, no, no. Peck. P-E-C-K. D-E-C-K? No. P. C. P. Oh, yes, E. E. What? C-K. Oh, yes, Mr. Eckstein. Call Cone to the phone. Or I'll go over there on the next boat and kill you, you damned idiot, shrieked Peck. Tell him his store is on fire. That message was evidently delivered for almost instantly Mr. Cone was huffing and sputtering into the phone. Is that Dur-Fire-Marshall he managed to articulate? Listen, Mr. Cone, your store is not on fire, but I had to say that in order to get you to the telephone. I, Mr. Peck, a total stranger to you. You have a blue vase in your shop window on Geary Street and San Francisco. I want to buy it. And I want to buy it before 7.45 tonight. I want you to come across the bay to open the store and sell me that vase. Such a business. But you think I am. Crazy? No, Mr. Cone, I do not. I'm the only crazy man talking. I'm crazy for that vase and I've got to have it right away. You know what that vase costs? Mr. Cone drips syrup. No, and I don't give a hoot what it costs. I want that vase. I want it. And I want it when I want it. Do you get it? Well, let me see. What time is it? A silence while Mr. Cone evidently looked at his watch. It is a quarter to seven, Mr. Eckstein. Under the next drain from Mill Valley, don't leave till eight o'clock. Dot will get me to San Francisco at 8.50, and I am dining with me, friends, and uh, it just finished my soup. To hell with your soup. I want that blue vase. Well, I tell you, Mr. Eckstein, if you've got to have it, call up my head salesman, Herman Juist, in their Chilton Apartments. Prospect 3429. And tell him, I said he should come down right way quick and sell you that blue vase. Goodbye, Mr. Eckstein, and be Cone hung up. Instantly, Peck called Prospect 3429 and asked for Herman Juist. Mr. Juist's mother answered she was desolated because Herman was not at home, but vouched safe the information that he was dining at the country club. Which country club? She did not know. So Peck procured from the hotel clerk a list of the country clubs in and around San Francisco and started calling them up. At 8 o'clock he was still being informed that Mr. Juist was not a member, and Mr. Loose wasn't in, that Mr. Coose had been dead three months, and that Mr. Boos had played but ate holes when he received a telegram calling him back to New York. At the other clubs Mr. Juist was unknown. Licked, murmured Bill Peck, but never it be said that I didn't go down fighting. I'm going to heave a brick through that show window, grab the vase, and run with it. He engaged at Taxicab and instructed the driver to wait for him at the corner of Gary and Stockholm. Also he borrowed from the show floor a ball-peen hammer. When he reached the art shop of B. Cone, however, a policeman was standing in the doorway, violating the general orders of policemen on duty and surreptitiously smoking a cigar. He'll nab me if I crack that window, the desperate Peck decided, and continued on down the street, crossed to the other side, and came back. It was now dark and over the shop. B. Cone's name burned in small red-white and blue electric lights. And lo, it was spelled B. Cohen. Ex-private William E. Peck sat down on a fire hydrant and cursed with rage. His weak leg hurt him, too. And for some damnable reason the stump on his left arm developed a feeling that the missing hand was itchy. The world is filled with idiots, he raved furiously. I'm tired and I'm hungry. I skipped lunch and I've been too busy to think of dinner. He walked back to his taxi cab and returned to the hotel, where hope springing eternal, in his breast he called prospect three-two-four-nine and discovered that the missing Hermann Juist had returned to the bosom of his family. To him the frantic Peck delivered the message of B. Cone, whereupon the cautious Hermann Juist replied that he would confirm the authenticity of the message by telephoning Mr. Cone at Mr. Simpson Home in Mill Valley. If Mr. Cone or Cohen confirmed Keck's story, he, the said Hermann Juist would be in the store some time before nine o'clock, and if Mr. Keck cared to he might wait for them there. Mr. Keck said he would be delighted to wait for him there. At nine-fifteen Hermann Juist appeared on the scene. On his way down the street he had taken the precaution to pick up a policeman and bring him along with him. The lights were switched on in the store, and Mr. Juist lovingly extracted the blue base from the window. What's the cursed thing worth? Peck demanded. Two thousand dollars. Mr. Juist responded without so much quiver of his eyeless cash. He added, apparently as an afterthought, the exhausted Peck leaned against the sturdy guardian of the law, and sighed, this was the final straw. He had about ten dollars in his possession. You refuse absolutely to accept my cheque, he quivered. I don't know you, Mr. Peck. Hermann Juist replied simply. Where's your telephone? Mr. Juist led Peck to the telephone, and the latter called up Mr. Skinner. This is all that is mortal of Bill Peck speaking. I've got the store open, and for two thousand dollars' cash I can buy the blue base Mr. Rick's has sent his heart upon. Oh, Peck, dear fellow, Mr. Skinner purred sympathetically. Have you been all this time on that errand? I haven't. I'm going to stick to the job until I deliver the goods. For God's sake, let me have two thousand dollars, and bring it down to me at B. Cohen's Art Shop on Geary Street, near Grant Avenue. I am too utterly exhausted to go up after it. My dear Peck, I have in two thousand dollars in my house. That's too great a sum of money to keep on hand. We'll then come down to open up the office safe and get the money for me. Time lock on the office safe, Peck, impossible. Well then, come down and identify me at hotels and cafes and restaurants so I can cash my own cheque. Is your cheque good, Mr. Peck? The flood of invective, which had been accumulating in Mr. Peck's system all the afternoon now broke its bounds. He screamed at Mr. Skinner, a blasphemous invitation to be taken himself to the lower regions. Tomorrow morning, he promised, hurstly, I'll beat you to death with the stump of my left arm, you miserable, cold-blooded, lazy, stiff-less slacker. He called up Cappy Rick's residence next and asked for Captain Matt Peasley, who he knew made his house with his father-in-law. Matt Peasley came to the telephone and listened sympathetically to Peck's tale of woe. Peck, that's the worst outrage I've ever heard of, he declared. The idea of setting you on such a task you take my advice and forget the blue vase. I can't, Peck panted. Mr. Rick's will feel mighty chagrin if I fail to get the vase for him. I wouldn't disappoint him for my right arm. It's been a dead game sport, with name Captain Peasley, but it's too late to go get the vase to him. Rick, he left the city at eight o'clock, and is now it's almost half past nine. I know, but if I can secure legal possession of the vase, I'll get it to him before he leaves the train at Santa Barbara at six o'clock tomorrow morning. How? There's a flying school out at the marina and one of the pilots there is a friend of mine. He'll fly to Santa Barbara with me in the vase. You're crazy. I know it. Please lend me two thousand dollars. What for? To pay for the vase. Now I know you're crazy or drunk. Why, if Cappy Rick's ever forgot himself to the extent of two thousand dollars for a vase he'd bleed to death in an hour. Won't you let me have the two thousand dollars, Captain Peasley? I will not peck old son. Go home and to bed and forget about it. Please, I can cash your checks. You're known so much better than I in its Sunday night. And it's a fine way to keep the holy Sabbath day, Matt Peasley retorted and hung up. Well, Herman Juice queried. Do we stay here all night? Bill Peck bowed his head. Look here, he demanded suddenly. Do you know a good diamond when you see it? I do, Herman Juice replied. Well, you wait here while I go to my hotel and get one. Sure. Bill Peck limped painfully away. Forty minutes later he returned with the platinum rings sent with diamonds and sapphires. What are they worth, he demanded. Herman Juice looked over the ring and lovingly appraised it conservatively at twenty-five hundred dollars. Take it as security for payment of my check, Peck pleaded. Give me a receipt for it. After my check has gone through clearing, I'll come back and get the ring. Fifteen minutes later, with the blue vase packed in Excelsior, and reposing in a stout cardboard box, Bill Peck entered a restaurant and ordered dinner. When he had dined he engaged a taxi and was driven to the flying field at the marina. From the night watchman he ascertained the address of his pilot friend and at midnight with his friend at the wheel, Bill Peck. And his blue vase soared up into the moonlight and headed south. An hour and a half later he landed in the stubble field at Salinas Valley and bidding his friend good-bye. Bill Peck trudged across the railroad tracks and sat down. When the train-bearing capyrix came roaring down the valley, Peck twisted a Sunday paper with which he had provided himself into an improvised torch which he lighted. Standing between the rails he swung the flaming paper frantically. The train slid to a halt. A breakman opened the vestibule door and Bill Peck stepped warily aboard. What do you mean by flagging this train? The breakman demanded angrily as he singled the engineer to proceed. Got a ticket? No. But I've got the money to pay my way. And I flagged this train because I wanted to change my method of travel. I'm looking for a man in State Room A of Car 7. And if you try and block me there'll be murder done. That's right. Take advantage of your half portion arm and abuse me, the breakman retorted bitterly. Are you looking for that little old man with the Henry Clay collar and the mutton-chop whiskers? I certainly am, while he was looking for you just before we left in San Francisco. He asked me if I had seen a one-armed man with a box under his good arm. I'll lead you to him. The prolonged ringing of Cappy's State Room door brought the old gentleman to the entrance in his night-shirt. Very sorry to have to disturb you, Mr. Rick, said Bill Peck. But the fact is there are so many co-ins and cones and co-hands. And it was such a job to dig up $2,000 that I failed to connect with you at 7.45 last night as per orders. It was absolutely impossible for me to accomplish the task within the time-limit set. But I was resolved that you should not be disappointed. Here is the vase. The shop wasn't within four blocks of where you thought it was, sir. But I am sure I found the right vase. It ought to be. It cost enough, and it's hard enough to get. So it should be precious enough to form a gift for any friend of yours. Cappy Rick stared at Bill Peck as if the latter were a wraith. By the twelve ragged apostles, he murmured. By the holy pink-toed prophet. We changed the sign on you, and we stacked the co-ins on you. And we set a policeman to guard the shop to keep you from breaking the window. And we made you dig up $2,000 on Sunday night in a town where you are practically unknown. And while you missed the train at 8 o'clock, you overtake it at 2 o'clock in the morning and deliver the blue vase. Come in and rest your poor, old-leg Bill. Breakman, I am much obliged to you. Bill Peck entered and slumped warily down on the sette. So it was a plant he cracked, and his voice trembled with rage. Well, sir, you're an old man, and you've been good to me. So I do not begrudge you, your little joke, but, Mr. Ricks, I can't stand things like I used to, my leg hurts and my stump hurts and my heart hurts. He paused, choking, and the tears of impotent rage filled his eyes. You shouldn't treat me that way, sir, he complained presently. I had been trained not to question orders, even when they may seem utterly foolish to me, and I've been trained to obey them on time, if possible, but if impossible to obey them anyhow. I've been taught loyalty to my chief, and I'm sorry my chief found it necessary to make a buffoon of me. I haven't had a very good time these past three years, and you can pa-pa-pa pass your skunk spruce and large rustic and short odd-length stock to some other slacker-like skinner, and you'd better arrange to replace skinner, because he's young enough to take a beating. But I'm going to give it to him, and it'll be at a hospital job, sir. Cappy Ricks ruffled Bill Peck's aching head with a paternal hand. Bill Old Boy, it was cruel, damnably cruel, but I had a big job for you, and I wanted to find out a lot of things about you before I entrusted you with that job. So I arranged to give you the degree of the blue vase, which is the supreme test of a go-getter. You thought you carried into this state room a two-thousand-dollar vase, but between ourselves you really carried in was a ten-thousand-dollar job as our Shanghai manager. What? What? Every time I have to pick out a permanent holder of a job worth ten-thousand dollars or more, I give the candidate the degree of the blue vase, Cappy explained. I've had two men out of a field of fifteen deliver the vase, Bill. Bill Peck had forgotten his rage, but the tears of his recent fury still glistened in his bold blue eyes. Thank you, sir. I forgive you, and I'll make good in Shanghai. I know you will, Bill. Now tell me, son, weren't you tempted to quit when you discovered the almost insuperable obstacles I had placed in your way? Yes, sir, I was. I wanted to commit suicide before I'd finished telephoning all of the C-O-H-E-N-S in the world, and when I started on the C-O-H-N-S, well it was this way, sir. I just couldn't quit because I would have been disloyal to a man I once knew. Who was he, Cappy demanded, and there was awe in his voice. He was my brigadier, and he had a brigade motto, it shall be done. When the division commander called him up and told him to move forward with his brigade and occupy certain territory, our brigadier would say very well, sir, it shall be done. If any officer in his brigade showed signs of flunking his job because it appeared impossible, the brigadier would just look at him once, and then that officer would remember the motto, and go about his job or die trying. In the army, sir, the esprit de corps doesn't bubble up from the bottom, it filters down from the top. An organization is what its commanding officer is. Neither better nor worse. In my company, when the top sergeant handed out a week of kitchen police to a buck, that buck was out of luck, if he couldn't muster a grin and say, All right, sergeant, it shall be done. The brigadier sent for me once and ordered me to go out and get a certain jerpin sniper. I had been pretty lucky, some days I'd get enough for a mess, and he'd heard of me. He opened a map and said to me, Here's about where he holds up, go and get him private peck. Well, Mr. Ricks, I snapped into it and gave him a rifle salute and said, Sir, it shall be done. I'll never forget the look that man gave. He came down to the field hospital to see me after I'd walked into one of those, Austrian 88s. I knew my left wing was a total loss, and I suspected my left leg was about to leave me. And I was downhearted and wanted to die. He came and bucked me up. He said, Well, private peck, you're not half dead. In civil life you're going to be worth half a dozen live ones, aren't you? But I was pretty far gone, and I told him I didn't believe it. So he gave me a hard look and said, Private peck, we'll do the utmost to recover. And as a starter he will smile. Of course, putting it down in the form of the order, I had to give him my usual reply, so I grinned and said, Sir, it shall be done. He was quite a man, sir, and his brigade had a soul. His soul, I see, Bill. And his soul goes marching on. Who was he, Bill? Bill peck named his idol. By the twelve ragged apostles, there was awe in Capyric's voice. There was reverence in his faded old eyes. Sonny continued gently. Twenty-five years ago, your brigadier was a candidate for an important job in my employ, and I gave him the degree of the blue vase. He couldn't get the vase legitimately. So he threw a cobblestone, threw the window, grabbed the vase, and ran a mile and a half before the police captured him. Gossed me a lot of money to square the case and keep it quiet. But he was too good, Bill, and I couldn't stand in his way, so I let him go forward to his destiny. But tell me, Bill, how did you get the two thousand dollars to pay for the vase? Once said ex-Private peck thoughtfully, the brigadier and I were, first at a dugout entrance. It was a headquarters dugout, and they wouldn't surrender, so I bombed them. And when we went down, I found a finger with a ring on it. And the brigadier said that if I didn't take the ring somebody else would. I left that ring a security for my check. But how could you have the courage to let me in for a two thousand dollar vase? Didn't you realize the price was absurd and I might repudiate the transaction? Certainly not. You are responsible for the acts of your servant. You are a true blue sport, and would never repudiate any action. You told me what to do, but you did not insult my intelligence by telling me how to do it. When my late brigadier sent me after the German sniper, he did not take into consideration the probability that the sniper might get me. He told me to get the sniper. It was my business to see to it that I accomplished my mission and carried my objective, which of course I could not have done if I had permitted the German to get me. I see, Bill. Well, give that blue vase to the porter in the morning. I paid fifteen cents for it, in a five, ten, and fifteen cents store. Meanwhile, hop into that upper berth and help yourself to a well-earned rest. But aren't you going to a wedding anniversary at Santa Barbara, Mr. Ricks? No, I'm not. Bill, I discovered a long time ago that it's a good idea for me to get out of town and play golf as often as I can. Besides, which prudence dictates that I remain away from the office for a week after the seeker of the blue vase fails to deliver the goods. And, by the way, Bill, what sort of game do you play? Oh, forgive me, Bill. I forgot about your left arm. Say, look here, sir, Bill Peck retorted. I'm big enough and ugly enough to play one-handed golf. But have you ever tried it? No, sir. Bill Peck replied seriously. But it shall be done. End of Chapter 5 End of The Go-Getter