"Where's the letter that came with this report, Skinner?" Cappy piped.
"He didn't enclose one, Mr. Ricks."
"Im-possible!"
"All of Captain Peasley's communications with this office since he
entered our employ have been by wire."
"But--dad-burn the fellow, Skinner--why doesn't he write and tell us
something?"
"About what?"
"Why, about his ship, his voyage--any old thing. An owner likes to
have a report on his property once in a while, doesn't he? Unless we
happen to charter the Retriever for a cargo to her home port, you know
very well, Skinner, we may not see her for years. Besides, I've never
seen the man Peasley, and if he'd only write now and then I could get
a line on him from his letters. I can always tell a fool by the
letter he writes, Skinner."
"Well, then," Skinner replied. "Peasley must be a wise man, because
he never writes at all. The only specimen of that fellow's
handwriting I've ever seen is his signature on the drafts he draws
against us. You will notice that he has even engaged a
stenographer--at his own expense, so the clerk informs me--to
typewrite his statement of account."
"Then that explains it, Skinner. The big-fisted brute can't write a
hand that anybody could read. But, still, he should have dictated a
letter, Skinner.
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