Tom brought his fist down on the table with a blow that made the glasses ring.
"It was on the Belle Brandon!" he cried out, very excited. "A stout old party, fair complected, who played the flute."
"That's him!" cried Phelps, half-starting from his chair.
"I reckon he must be up Jaluit way," said Tom coolly, "Captain Cole being bound for the Marshalls at the time."
I could feel them shooting glances all around us.
"It's remarkable your friend here doesn't remember him," says the one they called Nettleship, indicating me with the heel of his glass.
"I didn't happen to get aboard the Brandon," says I. "What was I doing, Tom? I disremember."
"That was when you was laid up with boils," says Tom, as ready as lightning.
"So it was," says I.
"You didn't happen to pass any talk with him?" asks Mr. Phelps of Tom.