“Is the captain aboard?” I inquired.
“Captain Hake has gone over to his home on Long Island for a day or two,” answered the purser. “The first officer, Mr. Grice, is forward, superintending the unloading.”
“Thank you,” I said, and hurried up to the deck. I found Mr. Grice without difficulty, a tall, blond young man, with eyes of a cerulean blue. “Can you spare me a moment?” I asked, after I had introduced myself.
“Why, I guess so. What is it?”
“Did you ever see this man before?” and I produced the photograph Godfrey had given me.
“Well, I should say so!” he cried, at the first glance. “And I hope I’ll never see him ag’in. Thompson his name is, and we shipped him at Barbadoes, in place of one of our men who deserted there. He didn’t have a decent rag to his back, so we fitted him up with some old things out of the slop-chest.”
I nodded; that explained the different initials marked on his clothing.
“He only shipped as far as St. Pierre,” continued the mate; “but after we’d got there, he changed his mind and come on to New York. What’s he been doin’? Gettin’ into more trouble? He’s not been out of jail more’n three or four weeks.”
“Out of jail?”
“Yes—he was a regular fiend for booze, though we didn’t find it out until after we left St. Pierre. Where he got it I don’t know—he didn’t have any money t’ buy it, that’s sure. I’ve kind o’ thought one of the passengers must ’a’ give it to him, though I
