“He took it all in, of course?” the boy asked at last.
“’Course he did. ’Tain’t funny,” protested the Cap’n, knocking the ashes out of his pipe with unnecessary violence.
“But it is funny,” replied Rod. “You see, Mr. Harmon’s hobby is butterflies and he spends half his time and lots of money traveling around to places like the South Sea islands after them.”
“Well I’m blest!” commented the watchman, with an inward twinge at the memory of some of the wilder statements he had made to Mr. Harmon. “Didn’t know these artist chaps ever made lots o’ money like that.”
“That’s funnier still,” replied Rod, with a broader smile. “He only paints pictures for fun, on vacations.”
“Now, who’d ha’ thought that!” was Cap’n Crumbie’s pensive reply.
During the next forenoon, Jack in view of what the watchman had told them, was not surprised to see the man who called himself Martin appear on the dock with a companion. And from the mysterious and yet eloquent signs which Cap’n Crumbie made, both with his index-finger and with his left eye, the lid of which drooped in an unmistakable wink, Jack realized that the individual with him was his opponent of the previous day.
Hegan was no more like the popular idea of a detective than his companion. He was a short, bull-necked person, with red, beefy hands, a bold, determined, and also unshaven face, an insolent air, and bright, beady eyes which darted about restlessly. He smoked cigars incessantly, lighting one from the stub of another.
The two men were waiting at the end of the wharf when the ferry returned from the Point, and stepped on board as soon as the other passengers had disembarked.