Caspar, a deck hand, and the cook, a black fellow. The first two saved
themselves by leaping aboard this boat just as she struck, and we
picked the nigger up in the skiff that we immediately lowered to look
for survivors."
"You say the owner was a Mr. Caspar?"
"Yes, here is the name signed to this paper. You see, though we were
in no way to blame, they might have sued for heavy damages and bothered
us considerably. So when her owner offered to compromise and waive all
claims for three hundred dollars, I thought it was the cheapest way out
of the scrape, and took him up. I had this paper prepared by a lawyer
who is on board, and witnessed before a notary, so that it is all
square and ship-shape. See, here is Mr. Caspar's signature."
Sure enough, there at the bottom of the paper exhibited by the Captain
was the name "Winn Caspar," written clearly and boldly. It certainly
looked like Winn's signature.
Billy Brackett was staggered. What could it all mean? Something was
evidently wrong; but what it was he could not determine.
"Where is this Mr. Caspar now?" he asked.
"Went ashore the moment we touched here," was the reply. "Said he must
hurry back to St. Louis. Took his man with him."
"Was he a young fellow; a mere boy, in fact?"
"Oh, bless you, no! He was past middle-age.
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