“May I use your telephone one moment?” asked Pinkerton; and as soon as permission had been granted, I heard him ring up the printing-office where our advertisements were usually handled.  More I did not hear; for suddenly recalling the big, bad hand in the register of the What Cheer House, I asked the consulate clerk if he had a specimen of Captain Trent’s writing.  Whereupon I learned that the captain could not write, having cut his hand open a little before the loss of the brig; that the latter part of the log even had been written up by Mr. Goddedaal; and that Trent had always signed with his left hand.  By the time I had gleaned this information, Pinkerton was ready.

“That’s all that we can do.  Now for the schooner,” said he; “and by to-morrow evening I lay hands on Goddedaal, or my name’s not Pinkerton.”

“How have you managed?” I inquired.

“You’ll see before you get to bed,” said Pinkerton.  “And now, after all this backwarding and forwarding, and that hotel clerk, and that bug Bellairs, it’ll be a change and a kind of consolation to see the schooner.  I guess things are humming there.”

But on the wharf, when we reached it, there was no sign of bustle, and, but for the galley smoke, no mark of life on the Norah Creina.  Pinkerton’s face grew pale, and his mouth straightened, as he leaped on board.

“Where’s the captain of this——?” and he left the phrase unfinished, finding no epithet sufficiently energetic for his thoughts.

It did not appear whom or what he was addressing; but a head, presumably the cook’s, appeared in answer at the galley door.

“In the cabin, at dinner,” said the cook deliberately, chewing as he spoke.

“Is that cargo out?”

“No, sir.”

“None of it?”

“O, there’s some of it out.  We’ll get at the rest of it livelier to-morrow, I guess.”

“I guess there’ll be something broken first,” said Pinkerton, and strode to the cabin.

Here we found a man, fat, dark, and quiet, seated gravely at what seemed a liberal meal.  He looked up upon our entrance; and seeing Pinkerton continue to stand facing him in silence, hat on head, arms folded, and lips compressed, an expression of mingled wonder and annoyance began to dawn upon his placid face.

“Well!” said Jim; “and so this is what you call rushing around?”

“Who are you?” cries the captain.

“Me!  I’m Pinkerton!” retorted Jim, as though the name had been a talisman.

“You’re not very civil, whoever you are,” was the reply.  But still a certain effect had been produced, for he scrambled to his feet, and added hastily, “A man must have a bit of dinner, you know, Mr. Pinkerton.”

“Where’s your mate?” snapped Jim.

“He’s up town,” returned the other.

“Up town!” sneered Pinkerton.  “Now, I’ll tell you what you are:  you’re a Fraud; and if I wasn’t afraid of dirtying my boot, I would kick you and your dinner into that dock.”