“Yes, sir—sure.”
I slowly drew out the knotted twine string and held it up without speaking. He gazed at it indifferently, then looked at me inquiringly. My patience was sorely taxed. However, I kept my temper down, and said in my usual voice,—
“Wicklow, do you see this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is it?”
“It seems to be a piece of string.”
“Seems? It is a piece of string. Do you recognize it?”
“No, sir,” he replied, as calmly as the words could be uttered.
His coolness was perfectly wonderful! I paused now for several seconds, in order that the silence might add impressiveness to what I was about to say; then I rose and laid my hand on his shoulder, and said gravely,—
“It will do you no good, poor boy, none in the world. This sign to the ‘Master,’ this knotted string, found in one of the guns on the water-front—”