"There's a whole crowd inside the wreck," the Indian affirmed. "Here, we'll begin by questioning the boy who is watching us over there."
Leaning against the stump of a broken mast, stood a lean, pasty-faced gutter-snipe, with his hands in his pockets, smoking a huge cigar. Simon went up to him, muttering:
"Very like one of Lord Bakefield's favourite Havanas. . . . Where did you sneak that cigar?" he asked.
"I ain't sneaked nuffin, sure as my name's Jim. It was giv' me."
"Who gave it you?"
"My old man."
"Where is he, your old man?"
"Listen. . . ."
They listened. A noise echoed beneath their feet in the bowels of the wreck. It sounded like the regular blows of a hammer.
"That's my old man, smashin' 'er up," said the urchin, grinning.