“What have you to do with the papers?” demanded the captain, in surprise.
“I will tell you, sir. For the want of these papers a New York merchant failed who owed me ten thousand dollars.”
“Whew! I begin to see.”
“This man—he calls himself Morton, but his real name is Lincoln—was Mr. Armstrong’s clerk. He appropriated these securities, worth about eighty thousand dollars, and fled. It was supposed, but not known, that he had come to California. I agreed to follow him and ascertain.”
“It is rather strange that you, a boy, should have undertaken such a task. It is a man’s work.”
“There was no one else to do it. I offered my services, and was accepted. I arrived in San Francisco three months since. I only met this man a few days ago.”
“How did you know him?”
“Mr. Armstrong gave me his description.”
“Very good. Having found him, you followed him. What good did you think it would do? Supposing he had the papers, how did you expect to get hold of them?”
“That I didn’t know. I had no plan,” Tom confessed frankly. “But if I were with him, some opportunity might offer. I set out in the hope of that.”