Part 18 (2/2)

”There's a raft, with three men aboard it, who call themselves 'river-traders,' moored at the edge of that timber, just below the city,” volunteered one of the by-standers, who had overheard the young man's remarks.

”Will you go with me and point it out?” asked Billy Brackett, eagerly.

”Yes, I don't mind, seeing that this weather makes a bit of slack time,” replied the man.

So requesting Cap'n Cod to wait there until his return, and promising to be back as quickly as possible, the young engineer and his guide, followed by several curiosity-seekers, started in search of the raft.

It is needless to say that they failed to find it, though another hour elapsed before Billy Brackett returned. He was disappointed, but was possessed of a theory.

”I believe Winn has found that raft,” he said to Cap'n Cod, as they sat together in the small hotel to which they had repaired for a consultation and dinner. ”But he probably discovered it just as those fellows, alarmed at meeting me, were putting off for another run down the river. Then he hurried back here, and not finding us, took the responsibility of starting after them in the _Whatnot_, hoping in that way to keep them in sight. It was a crazy performance, though just such a one as that boy would undertake. He is a splendid fellow, with the one conspicuous failing of believing that he knows what to do under any circ.u.mstances just a little better than any one else. So he has persuaded Solon that it is their duty to keep that raft in sight until it is tied up again, and then he'll telegraph to us. It is more than likely that the raft will stop at St. Louis, in which case they must be nearly there by this time, and we ought to hear from Winn very soon.

That is my theory, and now I'll run up to the telegraph office and see if a despatch has come.”

There was no message for any one named Brackett, and so, after leaving word to have anything that came for him sent to the hotel, the young man hastened back. An up-river steamboat had just made fast to the levee, and the two anxious men went down to see if her pilot had seen anything of the _Whatnot_. As they approached they saw by her splintered bows that she had been in a collision. Others had noticed this also, and already a crowd of people was gathered about her gang-plank to learn the news. Forcing a way through for himself and Cap'n Cod, Billy Brackett boarded the boat, and went directly to the Captain's room.

The Captain was inclined to be ugly and uncommunicative; but, with a happy thought, Billy Brackett displayed the badge with which Sheriff Riley had provided him. At sight of it the man at once expressed his readiness to impart all the information they might require.

Yes, he had been in collision with a trading-scow, but there were no lives lost, and the damage had already been satisfactorily settled. It happened a couple of miles above St. Louis, and the fog was so thick that she was not seen until they were right on her. She was crossing the channel, and they struck her amids.h.i.+p, sinking her almost instantly.

Her name? Why, according to this paper, it was the _Whatnot_. Queer sort of a name, and she looked to be a queer sort of craft.

At this Billy Brackett's face grew very pale, while poor Cap'n Cod sank into a chair and groaned.

”No lives lost, you say? What then became of the people who were on board that trading-scow?”

”There were only three,” answered the Captain; ”her owner, a Mr.

Caspar, a deck hand, and the cook, a black fellow. The first two saved themselves by leaping aboard this boat just as she struck, and we picked the n.i.g.g.e.r up in the skiff that we immediately lowered to look for survivors.”

”You say the owner was a Mr. Caspar?”

”Yes, here is the name signed to this paper. You see, though we were in no way to blame, they might have sued for heavy damages and bothered us considerably. So when her owner offered to compromise and waive all claims for three hundred dollars, I thought it was the cheapest way out of the sc.r.a.pe, and took him up. I had this paper prepared by a lawyer who is on board, and witnessed before a notary, so that it is all square and s.h.i.+p-shape. See, here is Mr. Caspar's signature.”

Sure enough, there at the bottom of the paper exhibited by the Captain was the name ”Winn Caspar,” written clearly and boldly. It certainly looked like Winn's signature.

Billy Brackett was staggered. What could it all mean? Something was evidently wrong; but what it was he could not determine.

”Where is this Mr. Caspar now?” he asked.

”Went ash.o.r.e the moment we touched here,” was the reply. ”Said he must hurry back to St. Louis. Took his man with him.”

”Was he a young fellow; a mere boy, in fact?”

”Oh, bless you, no! He was past middle-age. Small, thin man, with a smooth face; and the other was a big man with a beard.”

”And what became of the cook, the negro, whom you rescued?”

”He's down below somewhere, getting dry. I told the mate to look after him.”

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