“But I want you to find that scoundrel Swiftwater!” said I, turning on the policeman, who stood just behind me.
“You’ll not keep us here any longer,” angrily said the ship’s master.
“O, yes, we will!” said the officer, showing more grit than I expected.
Then began the search all over again. The hurricane deck was the last resort, the ship having been searched from her hold clear through the steerage and saloon cabins to the main deck.
On the main deck there were a half dozen lifeboats securely lashed their proper places. It was dark by this time, but, curiously enough, there was a little fluttering electric arc light near the end of the warehouse on the dock, close to the after end of the boat.
That lamp must have been burning that night through some of the mysterious and indefinable laws of Providence or some other thing, because by its glare I could see a huddled, shapeless, black form underneath the last lifeboat on the upper deck.
“That’s him!” I said, pointing at the shapeless mass in the shadow of the lifeboat.
The policeman walked over to the boat, stretched forth a big muscular arm, grasped the formless object and drew forth—Swiftwater Bill.
“Come to the station with us,” said the officer, as he helped Bill adjust his silk tile.