Pearson stuck his fist into the palm of his other hand. “I’ve got it!” he cried. “I knew your name was familiar. Why, you’re the mate that handled the mutinous crew aboard Uncle Jim’s bark, the Pacer, off Mauritius, in the typhoon, when he was hurt and in the cabin. I’ve heard him tell it a dozen times. Well, this is a lucky day for me!”
Captain Elisha was evidently pleased. “So he told you that, did he?” he began. “That was a time and a half, I—”
He was interrupted. Over the rail appeared a blue helmet, and an instant later a big and very pompous police officer leaped to the deck. He was followed by the wharf watchman, who looked frightened.
“Where’s the other one of them?” demanded the policeman. “Oh, it’s you, is it? Well, you’re too old to be gettin’ drunk and fightin’. Come along now, peaceable, and let’s have no words about it.”
He advanced and laid a hand on the captain’s arm.
“You’re under arrest,” he announced. “Will you come along quiet?”
“I’m under arrest?” repeated Captain Elisha. “Under—My soul and body! Why, I ain’t done anything.”
“Yes, I know. Nobody’s done nothin’. Come on, or shall I—Hello, Mr. Pearson, sir! How d’you do?”
Pearson had stepped forward.
“Slattery,” he said, “you’ve made a mistake. Let me tell you about it.” He drew the officer aside and whispered in his ear. After a rather lengthy conversation, the guardian of the peace turned to the watchman.