"James Morton! On a lumber barge!" exclaimed the mate, turning pale. "Are you sure of that?"
"Certainly. But what of it? Did you know Mr. Morton?"
"Jim Morton," murmured the mate. "I might have recognized the name. So his son is aboard this vessel! I must do something, or——"
"What was that you said?" asked the pilot, who had not caught the mate's words.
"Nothing—I—er—I thought I used to know his father—but—but it must be another man."
The mate was clearly very much excited over something.
"Now look here!" exclaimed Mr. Weatherby sternly. "Nat is not to blame for coming here. I got him the place, and I'll look out for him, too. If you try any of your tricks I'll take a hand in the game myself. Now, I've given you your course, and I want you to keep on it. If you run afoul of me you'll be sorry for it."
The mate turned aside, muttering to himself, but the pilot thought it was because he had made a mistake about the boxes.
"Look out for him, Nat," said Mr. Weatherby, a little later, after the pilot had reported to the captain the result of the search for the missing boxes. "He seems to have some grudge against you, and he'll do you an injury if he can."
"I believe that," replied Nat, "though I can't see why he should. I never injured him, and it was not my fault that I got the place he wanted for his nephew."