“Well, you haven’t any more infernal machines; have you, boys?” the hotel clerk asked them when they came in to get their keys. “Because, if you have, just keep quiet about ’em. I don’t want to be awakened in the middle of the night with some one from the bureau of combustibles coming down here,” and he laughed.
“No, we’re all out of dynamite,” responded Blake, in the same spirit.
He and Joe were early at the office of the sailing master, who made a specialty of fitting out vessels with crews. With a rather trembling voice Joe asked for information about Mr. Duncan.
“Duncan—Duncan,” mused the agent, as he looked over his books. “Seems to me I remember the name. Was he the Duncan from somewhere down the coast?”
“The Rockypoint light,” supplied Joe.
“Oh, yes, now I know. But why are you asking?” and the agent turned a rather suspicious look on Joe. “Is there anything wrong—is Mr. Duncan wanted for anything? I always try to protect my clients, you know, and I must find out why you are asking. Has he committed any crime, or is he wanted by anyone?”
Blake started at the coincidence of the words.
“Yes,” answered Joe; “he is wanted by me—I’m his son, and I’d like very much to find him. We found some of his letters, and there was one from you about a berth you might have vacant.”
“That’s right, my boy, and I’m glad to learn that is why you want Nate Duncan, for he and I are friends in a way.”
“But has he shipped?” asked Joe, eagerly.