hers 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 amidship, 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 nigger 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 scrape, 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 ship-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 ashore the moment we touched here," was the reply. "Said he must
hurry back to St. Louis. Took hi