“This rascal Howlman has informed upon the poor devil for spite,” said the Commander; “here's a private note from Hayling to myself about the fellow.”
The lieutenant took the note and read—
“My dear Arness,—Just a line on my own account. Be careful
what you are doing in this business. The fellow who informed
is a sort of hanger-on to the missionaries here. They don't
think much of him, but seem to put up with the swab as a
necessary evil. He confessed that jealousy had something to
do with the matter, and I could see the Admiral wanted to
kick him out of the cabin. Make sure that this man Barcom
is a deserter, or there will be the devil to pay if he
should prove to be an American citizen, or anything of that
kind.—Yours, CHARLES Hayling.”
“You see why they have left the matter to us, Carteret. You were on the Flycatcher five years ago, and the Admiral thinks you may be able to identify this fellow. Of course Barcom is not his name.”
Mr. Carteret at this moment was very busy with the chart, over which he bent his head a moment, and then turned sharply to the man at the wheel, who was not out of earshot.
“Keep your course,” he said sharply; “why don't you attend to your steering!” Then he turned to the commander: “I beg your pardon, sir; you were saying?——”
“I was saying that you ought to remember such an incident as a sergeant of marines deserting from the Flycatcher when she was down here five years ago.”
“I do remember it. The man's name was Charles Parker.”
“Is that the man?” And Arness handed him a photograph of a man dressed in white ducks and a straw hat, evidently taken by an amateur.
Carteret looked at the photograph for fully a couple of minutes before he answered slowly—