Mr. Skinner, in the language of the sporting world, was down for the
count--and knew it. Young Mr. Peck knew it too, and smiled graciously
upon the general manager, for young Mr. Peck had been in the army, where
one of the first great lessons to be assimilated is this: that the
commanding general's request is always tantamount to an order.

"Very well, sir," Mr. Skinner replied coldly. "Have you arranged the
compensation to be given Mr. Peck?"

Cappy threw up a deprecating 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 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,