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
mercifully chloroformed. Good Lord, how empty life would be if I
couldn't butt in and raise a little riot every once in so often."

Young 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 a cheap wrist watch. "It's twelve o'clock now," he
soliloquized aloud. "I'll pop out, wrap myself around some rations and
report on the job at one P.M. I might just as well knock out half a
day's pay." He glanced at Cappy Ricks and quoted:

"Count that day lost whose low descending sun
Finds prices shot to glory and business done for fun."

Unable to maintain his composure in the face of such levity during
office hours, Mr. Skinner withdrew, still wrapped in his sub-Antarctic
dignity. As 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," he opined.

"You only asked 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 farther. There's always a
point at which I quit--er--ah--William."

"More familiarly known as Bill Peck, sir."