Realizing the truth of Joe Pintaud's words, Peveril left the others to a stolid smoking of their long-stemmed pipes, and sought whatever information their more intelligent companion had to give concerning their present undertaking. He quickly discovered that, while Joe was as ignorant as himself of that coast, he was an expert raftsman and logger. He also found that the tug carried a good supply of rope, axes, pike-poles, and other things necessary for the work in hand.
After having satisfied himself on these points, Peveril gazed for a while at the bleak, rock-bound coast along which they were running, and then, suddenly bethinking himself of a pleasure that he had reserved for a leisure moment, he entered the pilot-house, and, sitting down on a cushioned locker behind Captain Spillins, who stood at the wheel, began to feel in his pockets.
As he did this his movements grew more and more impatient, until finally, with a muttered exclamation, he turned the entire contents of his pockets out on the cushion.
"Lost something?" asked the captain, looking around.
"Yes."
"Not your money, I hope."
"No, but a letter that was worth more to me than all the money in the world."
"Whew!" whistled the captain. "Must have been important."