Nat maneuvered the Nomad up to the lower platform of the gangway and Joe nimbly sprang off and made the little craft fast. She looked as tiny as a rowboat lying alongside the big black steamer, whose steel sides towered above her like the walls of a lofty building.
The vessel’s surgeon, a spectacled, solemn-looking young man, came down the gangway stairs.
“This is a matter requiring the utmost haste,” he said; “the man who has been injured must be taken to a shore hospital at once.”
“We’ll take the job. That’s what we came out here for,” rejoined Nat briskly. “Who is your man and how was he hurt?”
“His name is Jonas Jenkins of San Francisco. As I understand it, he is a wealthy man with big interests in Mexico. He booked passage for Mazatlan. Early to-day he was found at the foot of a stairway with what I fear is a fracture of the skull.”
“It was an accident?” asked Nat, for somehow there was something in the voice of the ship’s doctor which appeared to indicate that he was not altogether satisfied that Jonas Jenkins’ injury was unavoidable.
The doctor hesitated a minute before replying. Then he spoke in a low voice:
“I have no right to express any opinion about the matter,” he said, “but certain things about the case impressed me as being curious.”
“For instance?”
The question was Nat’s.