can dig up a couple of dozen carloads of red fir or bull pine in
transit, or some short or odd-length stock, or some larch ceiling or
flooring, or some hemlock random stock--in fact, anything the trade
doesn't want as a gift--you get me, don't you, Skinner?"

Mr. Skinner smiled his swordfish smile. "And if he fails to make
good--_au revoir_, eh?"

"Yes, I suppose so, although I hate to think about it. On the other
hand, if he makes good he's to have Andrews' salary. We must be fair,
Skinner. Whatever our faults we must always be fair." He rose and patted
the general manager's lean shoulder. "There, there, Skinner, my boy.
Forgive me if I've been a trifle--ah--ahem!--precipitate
and--er--harumph-h-h! Skinner, if you put a prohibitive price on that
skunk fir, 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."

* * * * *


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?"