The shock was so
sudden that the steward could not even think coherently. Was the captain
upstairs? And if so, what was his condition? Where was Nathan Smith?
And where was the five pounds?
A voice, a husky and discordant voice, broke in upon his meditations;
Jack Nugent was also curious.
"What does all this mean?" he demanded, angrily. "How did I get here?"
"You--you came downstairs," stammered Mr. Wilks, still racking his brains
in the vain effort to discover how matters stood.
Mr. Nugent was about to speak, but, thinking better of it, turned and
blundered into the kitchen. Sounds of splashing and puffing ensued, and
the steward going to the door saw him with his head under the tap. He
followed him in and at the right time handed him a towel. Despite the
disordered appearance of his hair the improvement in Mr. Nugent's
condition was so manifest that the steward, hoping for similar results,
turned the tap on again and followed his example.
"Your head wants cooling, I should think," said the young man, returning
him the towel. "What's it all about?"
Mr. Wilks hesitated; a bright thought occurred to him, and murmuring
something about a dry towel he sped up the narrow stairs to his bedroom.
The captain was not there. He pushed open the small lattice window and
peered out into the alley; no sign of either the captain or the ingenious
Mr.
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