“Oh, land-lubber’s luck!” exclaimed the fisherman, as he struck a light, and opened the door. “Good land, Mr. Dexter! And to think of you coming down all this way in the storm! Oh, Davy Jones! Oh, lee scuppers!”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Larry, surprised at the fisherman’s words and actions. “Is anything wrong?”
“The man’s skipped!” exclaimed Bert Bailey.
“Skipped?” cried Larry.
“Yep. Lit out late this afternoon. I sent you a wire after my first one, but I guess you didn’t get it. Sit down by the fire, and I’ll tell you about it while I make coffee, and get you something to eat. To think of your coming down all this way, and getting fooled. It’s too bad!”
The kitchen fire was going, and the fisherman turned on the drafts to brighten it. Soon a pot of coffee was boiling, while Larry got rid of some of his wet garments.
“Now tell me about the man,” he urged. “Maybe, after all, he isn’t the one I’m after.”
“He was a fellow of about your size, and he wore a sandy moustache,” said the fisherman. “He had a valise with the letters ‘H. W.’ on the end, though he gave it out that his name was Thomas Dawson. He walked with a limp.”
“Pshaw, then it can’t be Witherby!” cried Larry, who had been hopeful when he heard about the sandy moustache. “That is, unless he adopted the limp as a disguise. But go on. Tell me more.”
“He came here a few days ago,” went on the fisherman, “and hired a small cabin of me. Gave it out that he wanted a rest. But, say, you ought to have seen him spend money!”