"We have certainly blundered into some remarkable coincidences," agreed Clancy.
A man with red hair, who sat, at their table, cocked up his ear as Hill shook out his opinions.
"Hogan?" said he, leaning forward; "did I hear you mention Smuggler Hogan, of the Sylvia?"
"I called him Uriah Hogan," said Hill.
"It's all one and the same. Hogan's bad medicine." The man surveyed Clancy with an approving eye. "Maybe I shouldn't say anything about this," he continued, "but your hair's the same color as mine, and I always make it a point to pass valuable information along to a fellow bricktop. Beware of Hogan! What's the fellow doing with that boat of his? Some say he's smuggling arms into Lower California, for the use of the revolutionists, and some say he's running chinks and opium–both contraband goods–into the United States. Cap'n Hogan is not in these waters for any good, take it from me."
The red-headed man finished with an ominous look, and then with great politeness requested Hill to pass the salt.
"Hogan, I hear," the loquacious stranger continued presently, "charters that boat of his to the unsuspecting. He does it for a blind–nothing else. Now, if you gents want a trip up or down the coast, as far north as San Fran, or as far down as the Horn. I've got just the thing–slickest little schooner with steam auxiliary you ever put eyes on."
A light broke over Clancy. Maybe Captain Hogan wasn't such bad medicine, after all. This rival ship owner might be giving him a bad character–for business purposes.
"We're not intending to charter any boat." said Clancy.
"No harm done, anyway," said the red-haired person. "I've given you a straight tip about Hogan, though, and you can bank on it."