ched out his hand, as if to take the wallet.

"You must be dreaming," exclaimed the mate, and Nat noticed that his
hands trembled. "That is my pocketbook. It has no name on it."

"But I saw it," insisted Nat.

"I tell you it hasn't! Are you always going to dispute with me? Now
get out of here, I want to do my work," and the mate fairly thrust Nat
out of the room, and locked the door.

"I'm sure that was my father's pocketbook," murmured the boy, as he
walked slowly along the deck. "How did the mate get it? I wonder if he
knew my father? There is something queer about this. I must tell Mr.
Weatherby."

Nat would have thought there was something exceedingly queer about it,
if he could have seen what the mate was doing just then. For Mr.
Bumstead had taken the wallet from his pocket, and, with his knife, he
was carefully scraping away the gold letters that spelled the name of
James Morton--Nat's father.

CHAPTER VII

NAT HAS AN ACCIDENT

Nat vainly tried to recall some of the circumstances connected with
his father's death, that would give him a clue to the reason why the
mate had Mr. Morton's pocketbook. But the trouble was Nat could
remember very little. The sad news had stunned him so that he was in a
sort of dream for a long time afterward.

The body had been recovered, after several days, but there was nothing
in the pockets of the clothes, as far as Nat knew, to indicate that
Mr. Morton had left any money, or anything that represented it. Yet
Nat knew his father was a careful and saving man, who had good
abilities for business.

"If I wasn't sure it was his pocketbook, I would say that there might
be plenty of such wallets, with the name James Morton on them,"
thought Nat. "The name is not an uncommon one, but I can't be mistaken
in thinking that was poor dad's wallet. How the mate got it is a
mystery, unless he took it from my father. Or, perhaps dad gave it to
him, yet I don't believe he would do that either, for he once told me
the wallet was a present from mother, and I know he would not part
with it. I must consult with Mr. Weatherby."

Nat did not get a chance to speak to the pilot about the matter until
the next day. Mr. Weatherby looked grave when he heard our hero's
story.

"Are you sure you weren't mistaken?" he asked.

"Positive," was Nat's answer. "I knew that wallet too well."

"Then I'll make some inquiries. Suppose you come with me."

Nat and the pilot found the mate in his