“Then you did not fall overboard as they supposed,” stammered Randolph at last.

“Not much!  But the next thing to it.  It wasn’t the water that I took in that knocked me out, my lad, but something stronger.  I was shanghaied.”

“Shanghaied?” repeated Randolph vacantly.

“Yes, shanghaied!  Hocused!  Drugged at that gin mill on the wharf by a lot of crimps, who, mistaking me for a better man, shoved me, blind drunk and helpless, down the steps into a boat, and out to a short-handed brig in the stream.  When I came to I was outside the Heads, pointed for Guayaquil.  When they found they’d captured, not a poor Jack, but a man who’d trod a quarterdeck, who knew, and was known at every port on the trading line, and who could make it hot for them, they were glad to compromise and set me ashore at Acapulco, and six weeks later I landed in ’Frisco.”

“Safe and sound, thank Heaven!” said Randolph joyously.

“Not exactly, lad,” said Captain Dornton grimly, “but dead and sat upon by the coroner, and my body comfortably boxed up and on its way to England.”

“But that was nine months ago.  What have you been doing since?  Why didn’t you declare yourself then?” said Randolph impatiently, a little irritated by the man’s extreme indifference.  He really talked like an amused spectator of his own misfortunes.

“Steady, lad.  I know what you’re going to say.  I know all that happened.  But the first thing I found when I got back was that the shanghai business had saved my life; that but for that I would have really been occupying that box on its way to England, instead of the poor devil who was taken for me.”

A cold tremor passed over Randolph.  Captain Dornton, however, was tolerantly smiling.

“I don’t understand,” said Randolph breathlessly.

Captain Dornton rose and, walking to the door, looked out into the passage; then he shut the door carefully and returned, glancing about the room and at the storm-washed windows.  “I thought I heard some one outside.  I’m lying low just now, and only go out at night, for I don’t want this thing blown before I’m ready.  Got anything to drink here?”

Randolph replied by taking a decanter of whiskey and glasses from a cupboard.  The captain filled his glass, and continued with the same gentle but exasperating nonchalance, “Mind my smoking?”

“Not at all,” said Randolph, pushing a cigar toward him.  But the captain put it aside, drew from his pocket a short black clay pipe, stuffed it with black “Cavendish plug,” which he had first chipped off in the palm of his hand with a large clasp knife, lighted it, and took a few meditative whiffs.  Then, glancing at Randolph’s papers, he said, “I’m not keeping you from your work, lad?” and receiving a reply in the negative, puffed at his pipe and once more settled himself comfortably in his chair, with his dark, bearded profile toward Randolph.