“True for you,” confirmed several voices.
“Then, Mr. Smith, will you take a look at those lashings and tell me whether in your opinion they are the work of a sailor?” asked Kent.
The old hands fumbled expertly. The old face puckered. Judgment came forth presently.
“The knots is well enough. The lashin’s a passable job. What gits me is the rope.”
“Well, what’s wrong with the rope?”
“Nothin’ in pertic’ler. Only, I don’t know what just that style of rope would be doin’ on shipboard, unless it was to hang the old man’s wash on.”
“Suppose we lift this grating,” Kent suggested.
At this the man with the badge interposed. “Say, who’s runnin’ this thing, anyhow? I’m sheriff here, an’ this body ain’t to be moved till a doctor has viewed it.”
“Of course,” said Kent mildly; “but I thought you might be interested to see, Mr. Sheriff, whether a ship’s name was stamped somewhere on this grating.”
“Well, I don’t want any amachure learning me my business,” declared the official importantly.