Cappy Ricks laid the paper aside.

Thomaston, Maine! So the man Peasley was a Down-Easter! That
explained it.

"Well, I hope my teeth may fall into the ocean!" Cappy murmured.
"Thomaston, Maine! Why, he's one of our own town boys--one of my own
people! Dear, dear, dear! Well now, it's strange I didn't know that
name. I must be getting old to forget it."

He sat in his swivel chair, rocking gently backward and forward for
several minutes, after a fashion he had when perturbed. Suddenly his
old hand shot out and pressed the push button on his desk, and his
stenographer answered.

"Send Mr. Skinner in!" he commanded.

Presently Mr. Skinner came, and again Cappy eyed him over the tops of
his spectacles; again the terrible silence. Skinner commenced to
fidget.

"Skinner," began Cappy impressively, "how often have I got to tell you
not to interfere with the shipping? Tut, tut! Not a peep out of you,
sir--not a peep! You had the audacity, sir, to swear to a Federal
warrant against the man Peasley. How dare you, sir? Do you know who
the man Peasley is? You don't. Well, sir, I'll tell you. He's a
Down-East boy and I went to school with his people. I'll bet Ethan
Peasley was a relative of this boy Matt, because Ethan had a cousin by
the name of Matthew; and Ethan and Matt and I used to hell around
together until they went to sea.