“Oh, I forgot,” said Jack, feeling in his pocket, “we found a sort of a clue. The man tore his clothes on a nail as he slipped over the side, and next morning this was sticking on the nail.”
The chief examined the scrap of material gravely for a moment.
“It’s a wonder he didn’t come back and kick up a row with you for leaving nails sticking up,” he said, handing back the fragment of cloth. “If I were you I’d say nothing more about that, or you’ll may be having some one come and pitch into you.”
Jack bit his lip. Evidently he was wasting his time here, and the off-hand manner of the chief gave him no particular reassurance.
“I should be rather pleased if the man who got on to that nail did come and kick up a row,” he said. “Then I should know who it was.”
“How would that help you? He’s done nothing unlawful, as far as I can make out.”
“I suppose he hasn’t really,” Jack was compelled to admit. “All the same, I’m glad I came up and told you.”
“Don’t you worry, son,” said the chief, rising from his chair as a signal that the interview was over. “If anything more happens, though, you let me know.”
“Thank you,” said Jack, dubiously, turning toward the door.
“When you come to think of it,” observed George, as they walked in the direction of the boat, “we hadn’t an awful lot to complain of, had we?”