lder.

The heat from the coal below them was almost unbearable. In the cabin
the six doors kept up a continuous ear-shocking fusillade, as though
half a dozen men were fighting with revolvers; from without, down the
open skylight, came the sing-song talk of the Chinamen and the wash
and ripple of the two vessels, now side by side. The air, foul beyond
expression, tasted of brass, their heads swam and ached to bursting, but
absorbed in their work they had no thought of the lapse of time nor the
discomfort of their surroundings. Twice during the examination of the
bark's papers, Kitchell sent Wilbur out into the cabin for the whiskey
decanter in the swinging racks.

"Here's the charter papers," said Kitchell, unfolding and spreading them
out one by one; "and here's the clearing papers from Blyth in England.
This yere's the insoorance, and here, this is--rot that, nothin' but the
articles for the crew--no use to us."

In a separate envelope, carefully sealed and bound, they came upon the
Captain's private papers. A marriage certificate setting forth the union
between Eilert Sternersen, of Fruholmen, Norway, and Sarah Moran, of
some seaport town (the name was indecipherable) of the North of
England. Next came a birth certificate of a daughter named Moran, dated
twenty-two years back, and a bill of sale of the bark "Lady Letty,"
whereby a two-thirds interest was conveyed from the previous owners (a
shipbuilding firm of Christiania) to Capt. Eilert Sternersen.

"The old man was his own boss," commented Kitchell. "Hello!" he
remarked, "look here"; a yellowed photograph was in his hand the picture
of a stout, fair-haired woman of about forty, wearing enormous pendant
earrings in the style of the early sixties. Below was written: "S. Moran
Sternersen, ob. 1867."

"Old woman copped off," said Kitchell, "so much the better for us; no
heirs to put in their gab; an'--hold hard--steady all--here's the will,
s'help me."

The only items of importance in the will were the confirmation of the
wife's death and the expressly stated bequest of "the bark known as
and sailing under the name of the 'Lady Letty' to my only and beloved
daughter, Moran."

"Well," said Wilbur.

The Captain sucked his mustache, then furiously, striking the desk with
his fist:

"The bark's ours!" there was a certain ring of defiance in his voice.
"Damn the will! I ain't so cock-sure about the law, but I'll make sure."

"As how?" said Wilbur.

Kitchell