“The rascal I am after came on board with a sack of coal this afternoon.”
“That oaf,” sneered the shipper, “have him hide and hair for all of me. Druski, ho, Druski,” he called.
From between the decks slouched the brawny mate of the vessel.
“Druski,” repeated the skipper, “is the dolt still below?”
“No,” answered the mate; “I kicked him, along with two hiding heavers, out of the bunkers two hours ago, just before the transport forced us to move. One of the heavers carried a good lot of dunnage over his shoulder, but he did not steal it here.”
Another sailor just at the moment came over the side, completing shore leave. “While you are asking, sir,” he stated to the skipper, “I saw the three of them go aboard the transport. A matey with me on the wharf said the big bark was short-handed in the engine room, and anybody with a pair of shoulders was liable to be nabbed.”
“Three of them!”
The big sergeant made a bee-line for the informer. He reeled off a minute description of Ricker.
Looking to the skipper for permission to speak, and getting a nod, the sailor expressed the view that one of the three might fit the illustration if he were dressed differently.
“One net for them all,” almost shouted Strogoff, “and in the stew they will make a pretty kettle of fish. Look alive; into the launch with you!”