NAT HAS AN ACCIDENT
Nat vainly tried to recall some of the circumstances connected with
his father's death, that would give him a clue to the reason why the
mate had Mr. Morton's pocketbook. But the trouble was Nat could
remember very little. The sad news had stunned him so that he was in a
sort of dream for a long time afterward.
The body had been recovered, after several days, but there was nothing
in the pockets of the clothes, as far as Nat knew, to indicate that
Mr. Morton had left any money, or anything that represented it. Yet
Nat knew his father was a careful and saving man, who had good
abilities for business.
"If I wasn't sure it was his pocketbook, I would say that there might
be plenty of such wallets, with the name James Morton on them,"
thought Nat. "The name is not an uncommon one, but I can't be mistaken
in thinking that was poor dad's wallet. How the mate got it is a
mystery, unless he took it from my father. Or, perhaps dad gave it to
him, yet I don't believe he would do that either, for he once told me
the wallet was a present from mother, and I know he would not part
with it. I must consult with Mr. Weatherby."
Nat did not get a chance to speak to the pilot about the matter until
the next day. Mr. Weatherby looked grave when he heard our hero's
story.
"Are you sure you weren't mistaken?" he asked.
"Positive," was Nat's answer. "I knew that wallet too well."
"Then I'll make some inquiries. Suppose you come with me."
Nat and the pilot found the mate in his office, looking over some
papers.
"Nat thinks you have something that belonged to his father," said Mr.
Weatherby, pleasantly.
"He does, eh?" snapped the mate. "Well, he's mistaken, that's all I've
got to say. Now I wish you'd get out of here. I'm busy."
"But it won't do any harm to make some inquiries," went on the pilot.
"Do you mind showing me the pocketbook?"
"There it is!" said Mr. Bumstead suddenly, pulling the wallet in
question from his pocket. "He said it had his father's name on? Well,
it hasn't, you can see for yourself," and he quickly turned the
pocketbook from side to side, to show that there were no letters on
it. Then, without giving Mr. Weatherby a chance to look at it
closely, he thrust it back into his pocket.
"Are you satisfied?" he demanded. Nat hesitated.
"I--I suppose so," answered the pilot. "There is no name on that. Nat
must have been mistaken."
"I told him he was dreaming," answered the mate, with a leer. "Now
don't bother me again."
"Are you sure you saw the name on that pocketbook?" asked Mr.
Weatherby of Nat when they were out on the main deck.
"Positive."
"Perhaps it was some other wallet."
"No, it's the same one. I can tell because there's a dark spot on one
corner, where it got some oil on once, dad told me."
"But his name is not on it," remarked the pilot. "I had a good enough
look at it to determine that."
"I can't account for it," went on Nat, more puzzled than ever. He knew
he had seen the name, yet now, when he had another sight of the
wallet, it had disappeared. And no wonder, for the mate had done his
work well, and had so smoothed down the leather, where he had scraped
off the letters, that it needed a close inspection to disclose it.
This close inspection Mr. Bumstead was determined neither Nat nor the
pilot should make.
Though he said nothing to Nat about it, Mr. Weatherby had some
suspicions concerning the mate. For a long time he had distrusted the
man, but this was because of certain things that had occurred aboard
the _Jessie Drew_. Now there was something else. Mr. Weatherby
questioned Nat closely as to the incidents connected with Mr. Morton's
death. When he had learned all he could he remained a few moments in
deep thought. Then he said:
"Well, Nat, don't think any more about it. It is very possible you
were mistaken about the pocketbook. That form of wallet is not
uncommon, and of course there are lots of men with the same name your
father had. Why the mate should have a pocketbook, with some other
name on it than his own, I can't explain. But we'll let matters lie
quietly for a while. If you see or hear anything more out of the
ordinary, let me know."
"I will," promised Nat; and then he had to go to do some work in the
captain's office.
"I think you will bear watching, Mr. Bumstead," murmured the pilot, as
he went back to take the wheel. "I don't like your ways, and I'm going
to keep my eye on you."
On his part the mate, after the visit of Nat and Mr. Weatherby, was in
a somewhat anxious mood.
"I wish that boy had never come aboard," he mused. "I might have known
he would make trouble. I must be more careful. If I had only been a
few hours sooner my nephew would have had the place, and I would not
have to worry. Never mind. I may be able to get him here yet, but I
must first get Nat out of the way. He is too suspicious, and that
sneaking pilot is helping him. Still, they know nothing of the case,
nor how I got the wallet, and I'll not give it up without a fight. I
must hide that pocketbook, though. Lucky I got the name off, or I'd be
in a pretty pickle. If I had known he was Jim Morton's son I would
almost have given up my place, rather than be on the same boat with
him. But it's too late now."
He placed the wallet in a secret drawer in his safe, and then went on
with his work, but it seemed that his attention was distracted, and
several times he found himself staring out of his cabin window at
nothing at all.
Nat tried to follow the pilot's advice, and give no more thought to
the memento of his father which he had so unexpectedly discovered, but
it was hard work.
For the next few days he was kept very busy. Captain Marshall found
plenty of tasks for him, and, with running errands for the commander
and the two mates, attending to what the purser had for him to do, and
rendering occasional services for the pilot, the lad found himself
continually occupied.
He was learning more about ships than he ever knew before, and on one
or two occasions Mr. Weatherby took him into the pilot-house, and gave
him preliminary instructions in the exacting calling of steering big
vessels.
The freighter had stopped at several ports, taking on cargo at some,
and discharging it at others. All this made work for Nat, but he liked
it, for he was earning more than he had ever received before.
"Nat," said Mr. Dunn, one day, "I wish you would go down into the
forward hold, and check over those bales we took on at the last port.
We've got to deliver them at the next stop, and I Want to be sure the
shipping marks on them correspond to the marks on my list. I had to
put them down in a hurry."
"All right," answered the boy. "Here are the manifest slips all
written up, Mr. Dunn," and he handed the purser some blanks, filled in
with figures.
"That's good. You are doing very well, Nat Keep at it and you'll get a
better job soon."
Taking a lantern Nat went down into the forward hold, to examine some
bales of goods, in accordance with the purser's instructions. The
bales were heavy ones, but they had been stowed away in such a manner
that the shipping marks were in sight.
As Nat left the purser's office a man, who had been standing near a
window that opened into it, moved away. The man was the mate, Mr.
Bumstead, and as he saw Nat disappear below the deck he muttered:
"I think this is just the chance I want. We'll see how that
whipper-snapper will like his job after to-day."
While Nat was checking off the bales, finding only one or two slight
errors in the list the purser had given him, he heard a noise forward
in the dark hold.
"Who's there?" he asked, for it was against the rules for any one to
enter the cargo hold, unless authorized by the captain, mate or
purser.
No answer was returned, and Nat was beginning to think the noise was
made by rats, for there were very large ones in the ship. Then he
heard a sound he knew could not have been made by a rodent. It was the
sound of some one breathing heavily.
"Is any one here?" asked Nat. "I shall report this to the purser if
you don't answer," he threatened.
Still no reply came to him.
"Perhaps it is one of the sailors who has crawled in here to get a
sleep," Nat thought. "Maybe I'd better not say anything, for he might
be punished."
He listened, but the sound, whatever it was, did not come again. The
hold was quiet, save for the slight shifting of the cargo, as the
vessel rocked to and fro under the action of the waves.
"There, all done but one bale," said Nat, half aloud, "and that one is
turned wrong so I can't see the marks. Never mind, it's a top one, and
I can easily shift it, as it's small."
He climbed up on a tier of the cargo, first setting his lantern down
in a safe place, and then he proceeded to move the bale around.
Hardly had he touched it when the big package seemed to tumble outward
toward him. He felt himself falling backward, and vainly threw out his
hands to grasp some support. Farther and farther the bale toppled
outward, until it struck against Nat, and knocked him from his feet.
He fell to the floor of the hold, in a little aisle between two tiers
of freight, and the bale was on top of him.
[Illustration: "He fell to the floor of the hold"]
He heard a crash of glass, and knew that the lantern had been tipped
over and broken. Then everything was dark, and he heard a strange
ringing in his ears. Nat had been knocked unconscious alone down in
the big hold, but, worse than this, a tiny tongue of fire, from the
exposed lantern wick, was playing on the bales of inflammable stuff.