etective in a
story, don't it? My great-great-grandfather's mother-in-law on my
sister's side was German. I'm trying to live it down."

"What?" said Tom.

Mr. Conne screwed his cigar over to the corner of his mouth and looked
at Tom with a funny look.

"You see, we want to meet the doctor before he has a chance to change
his watch," said Mr. Conne more soberly. "If he set that thing a little
after nine last night (and he couldn't have set it before), he was
probably too busy thinking of getting off the ship to think of much
else. And he ought to be just coming out of his stateroom by now. We
must see him before he sees a clock. You get me?"

"Yes, sir," said Tom, a little anxious; "but I might be wrong, after
all."

"Maybe," said Mr. Conne. "There are three things we'll have to judge by:
There's his trying to get off the ship last night, and there's the
question of how his watch stands, and there's the question of how he
acts when we talk with him--see?"

"Yes, sir."

"Since you're a detective, remember this," Mr. Conne added
good-humoredly: "it's part of the A B C of the business. Three
middle-sized clues are better than one big one--if they hang together.
Six little ones aren't as good as three middle-sized ones, because
sometimes they seem to hang together when they don't really--see?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where'd you ever get your eyes and ears, anyway?" said Mr. Conne
abruptly.

"You learn to be observant when--you're a scout," said Tom.

Mr. Conne moved briskly along the deck, and Tom kept beside him with his
rather clumsy gait. Here and there little groups of passengers stood
chatting as they waited for breakfast. Among them were a few men in
khaki whom Tom understood to be army surgeons and engineers--the
forerunners of the legions who would "come across" later.

"Which would you rather be," queried Mr. Conne, "a detective or a
wireless operator?"

"I'd rather be a regular soldier," said Tom; "I made up my mind to it.
I'm only waiting till I'm eighteen."

Mr. Conne gave him a shrewd sideways glance, his cigar pointing upward
like a piece of field artillery.

"But I hope I can work on this ship when she's a regular transport, and
keep working on her till I'm eighteen."

"You haven't answered my question yet."

"I don't know which I'd rather be," said Tom.

"Hmmm," said Mr. Conne.

At the after-companionway he picked up a deck steward and asked him to
point out Dr. Curry, if he was about.

"