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