How virtuous actions blossom! Here was a young man to whose pleased ears I had rehearsed “Just before the Battle, Mother,” at some weekly picnic; and now, in that tense moment of my life, he came (from the machine) to be my helper.
“Captain Trent of the wreck? O yes, Mr. Dodd, he left about twelve; he and another of the men. The Kanaka went earlier, by the City of Pekin; I know that; I remember expressing his chest. Captain Trent? I’ll inquire, Mr. Dodd. Yes, they were all here. Here are the names on the register; perhaps you would care to look at them while I go and see about the baggage?”
I drew the book toward me, and stood looking at the four names, all written in the same hand—rather a big, and rather a bad one: Trent, Brown, Hardy, and (instead of Ah Wing) Jos. Amalu.
“Pinkerton,” said I suddenly, “have you that Occidental in your pocket?”
“Never left me,” said Pinkerton, producing the paper.
I turned to the account of the wreck.
“Here,” said I, “here’s the name. ‘Elias Goddedaal, mate.’ Why do we never come across Elias Goddedaal?”
“That’s so,” said Jim. “Was he with the rest in that saloon when you saw them?”
“I don’t believe it,” said I. “They were only four, and there was none that behaved like a mate.”
At this moment the clerk returned with his report.