"There were only three," answered the Captain; "her owner, a Mr. Caspar, a deck hand, and the cook, a black fellow. The first two saved themselves by leaping aboard this boat just as she struck, and we picked the nigger up in the skiff that we immediately lowered to look for survivors."
"You say the owner was a Mr. Caspar?"
"Yes, here is the name signed to this paper. You see, though we were in no way to blame, they might have sued for heavy damages and bothered us considerably. So when her owner offered to compromise and waive all claims for three hundred dollars, I thought it was the cheapest way out of the scrape, and took him up. I had this paper prepared by a lawyer who is on board, and witnessed before a notary, so that it is all square and ship-shape. See, here is Mr. Caspar's signature."
Sure enough, there at the bottom of the paper exhibited by the Captain was the name "Winn Caspar," written clearly and boldly. It certainly looked like Winn's signature.
Billy Brackett was staggered. What could it all mean? Something was evidently wrong; but what it was he could not determine.
"Where is this Mr. Caspar now?" he asked.
"Went ashore the moment we touched here," was the reply. "Said he must hurry back to St. Louis. Took his man with him."
"Was he a young fellow; a mere boy, in fact?"
"Oh, bless you, no! He was past middle-age. Small, thin man, with a smooth face; and the other was a big man with a beard."
"And what became of the cook, the negro, whom you rescued?"