“No, no!” exclaimed George, “there hasn’t been any row. I was shark fishing, and I caught a man—a dead man.”
“Hum!” said the Sergeant, doubtfully, “have you been drinking?”
“No!” shouted the excited deck hand, “I don’t touch it; but I swear to God it’s true I did catch a man!”
“Where is he now?”
“On the line; I hooked something and pulled it up. I couldn’t make out what it was; it came so dead and heavy. When I got it to the top I leaned over the stern and looked. My God, I never got such a fright in my life!”
“What did you do then?” asked the Sergeant.
“I let go the line and run up here!” said George.
“All right,” said the officer, in a grieved voice—he hated inquests—“some fellow’s gone and drowned himself in the river, I suppose.”
“I dunno,” replied George. “He’s dead, anyway, and by the look of it, I reckon he’s been dead some time.”
“You ought to have made the line fast,” said the Sergeant; “he might have got off the hook. Hope to Heaven he has,” he added, “and that he gets down to Palmer’s Island, or somewhere; I don’t want him. Wait, till I get my trousers on, I’ll go down and see. It might have been fancy with you. Sure you weren’t asleep, George?”