"That's his name," the Captain said, "and if you don't find that he was as crazy as a bedbug I'll say I'm General Graves."
"This diary seems to be written in very good English."
"Yes," said the Captain, "all those fellows keep one. They're like the Germans—give 'em a pencil and a piece of paper and they'll scribble all day."
"Did he say who wrote this?"
"No; he cashed in, as I told you; but you'll see the name of Fox here and there through the diary that's written in the small hand."
"Fox—who was 'Fox'?"
"Search me! Some Johnny, I suppose."
"May I take these with me?"
"Sure thing! I'll make you a present of 'em. All I ask is, if you find out whether that fellow 'Fox' grabs the peacherino from the Métropole or the one called 'Maria' you'll send me an invitation."
The bargain was struck. Then the question was asked: "Any idea who wrote this diary—the one written in a quick running hand?'