“Hello, Whitey,” he said. “Going by the name of Martin now, are you, eh? Haven’t seen you for quite a while.”
“My name ain’t White,” the man blustered.
“It used to be. It was, anyway, when you and your pal were arrested at Baymouth for burglary, and you were both sent to prison for three years. You only got out a while back, didn’t you?”
“Well, what about it?” demanded White, in a surly manner, seeing that further denial was useless.
“Only this, that I’m afraid you’ll have to go back again, and for a longer spell this time.”
“What for?” asked White. “We’ve only been defending ourselves against these boys.”
“That yarn won’t go,” replied the chief. “The captain of this schooner saw too much for you to get out of it. But I’m not talking about to-day’s affair. It’s something else you’ll stand trial for.”
“I haven’t done anything,” growled the man.
“Haven’t, eh? What about knocking down Sam Holden three years ago and getting away with twelve hundred dollars? Forgotten all about that, have you?”