The instant the fellow was on his feet, Mr. Coffin slid open the door of the wheelhouse and pushed the newcomer in.
“Jackson,” he said sharply, to the man inside, “go for Captain Wetherbee.”
Then he turned to the dripping figure that stood just within the door of the turret.
The stranger was a youth of fifteen or sixteen, with a sharp, intelligent face, and his saturated clothing was little more than rags.
“Hullo!” said the mate, “you’re not Brandon Tarr, I take it.”
“You kin bet on that, mister,” responded the youth grinning. “An’ you, I reckon, ain’t Cale Wetherbee. He’s got a wooden leg.”
“I’ve sent for Mr. Wetherbee,” replied Mr. Coffin. “What do you want?”
“I’ll tell th’ boss, wot I was told ter see,” declared the fellow shrewdly.
The youth was evidently of that great class of individuals known as “street gamins” who, in New York City, are numbered by the thousand.
He was thin and muscular, quick in his movements, and his eyes were shifty and uneasy, not from any lack of frankness or honesty, perhaps, but because his mode of life forced him to be ever on the watch for what might “happen next.”