“Get up and take the floor,” he directed.
“First-hand evidence is what counts,” went on Mr. Keedy. “Now, here’s a man who has told his story over a lot of times on the water-front. He has told it so many times it has grown to be a joke. They’ve given him the nickname of ‘Ingot Ike.’ Lots of big things in this world have been buried under a joke.”
He leaned back in his chair and twisted up the ends of his mustache.
“Court is open for first-hand evidence, gents. Ike is the first witness. I’m going to ask him questions and make him answer snappy, for if he ever gets to rambling on this story of his he’ll make it longer than a dime novel. Look-a-here, Ike, what was the steamer Golden Gate?”
“Passengers, bullion in ingots, and general cargo ’tween here and Panama.”
It was rather comical to see that old bean-pole straighten up and try to imitate the snappy style of Mr. Keedy.
“What was your job aboard of her?”
“Quartermaster.”
“What happened to her?”
“Caught fire off coast of Mexico when she was bound for Panama, beached well north of Acapulco, rolled over and over in surf, what was left of her, and bones still there. Three ribs show at low tide if you know where to look for ’em.”