In the morning he strolled undecidedly down to the wharf-boat, and,
missing his skiff, asked the watchman, who was just going off duty,
what he had done with it.
"Why, there it is, sir, just where you left it," answered the man, in a
surprised tone, pointing to a skiff that Billy Brackett was certain he
had never seen before.
"That is not my boat," he said.
"It is the one you came in last night," answered the watchman. "And
here is the coat you left in it. I took the liberty of bringing it in
out of the dew."
The young engineer looked at the coat the man was holding towards him,
and shook his head.
"That is not mine, either," he said.
"Whose is it, then?"
"I'm sure I don't know. You'd better look in the pockets. They may
contain some clew."
Acting upon this suggestion the watchman thrust his hand into a
breast-pocket of the coat and drew forth a note-book. He opened it.
"Here's something writ in it," he said; "but as I'm not quick at making
out strange writing, maybe you'll read it, sir."
Taking the book from the man's hand, and glancing carelessly at its
title-page, Billy Brackett uttered a cry of amazement. There, written
in a clear boyish hand, was the inscription:
"Winn Caspar. His Book."
[Illustration: "Billy Brackett uttered a cry of amazement.
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