The mate knelt down and inspected the thing curiously.
“This is where he slid over the side, and tore his coat, or his pants, maybe,” the younger lad commented sagely. “All the same, I don’t see how that helps us any.”
“It doesn’t, in a way,” agreed Jack. “But it’s what the detective chaps would call a clue.”
“What to?” George asked, laughing.
“I don’t know,” replied the captain. “A clue’s a clue, chump! You’ve got to have clues before you can catch anybody.”
“Don’t see how you can catch a ghost just because he tore his pants on a nail,” commented George.
“Now, George Santo, do ghosts wear pants?”
“Not this season,” replied George. “Hullo, Cap’n Crumbie,” he added, calling to the watchman who had just appeared on the edge of the wharf. “Come and see what our ghost left behind!”
The watchman scrambled down the rough ladder on one of the piles, and with a judicial air viewed the fragment of cloth.