"P.S.—If you wish to meet Mr. John P. Sant, captain of the Harvester, now lying in the bay and sailing the day after to-morrow, I can arrange it."
But both the postscripts were written on separate pieces of paper. Mr. Cartwright was not chief of police in a land of justice for nothing. He knew his way about.
Dicky Dunn, on receiving Peter's letter, called in his flag-lieutenant.
"When they shanghaied me, they knocked you about rather badly, didn't they, Selwyn?"
Selwyn instinctively put his hand to the back of his head.
"Yes, Sir Richard. They sand-bagged me, as they call it, and kicked me too."
"I'm pretty sure I know who did it," said the admiral, "and I'm proposing to get even with the man myself. It seems that it will be a difficult thing to prove. Besides, I'm not built that way. I don't want to prove it and send the man to gaol. I like getting even in my own fashion. What would you do if I could tell you who it was that laid the plot against us that night?"
Selwyn was a clean-skinned, bright-eyed, close-shaven young fellow, as typical an Anglo-Saxon salted in the seas as one could meet. His eyes sparkled now.
"I—I'd punch his head, sir."
The admiral nodded.