we've got him good, and got him where we want him."
"Then what's he doing on a steamer like this? Couldn't he see he was going to be cornered?"
The disposition of the operator was not altogether an inflammable one.
"That's just the point, my friend. He couldn't get out of Charleston or Mobile or New Orleans. We had those ports watched. So he slipped quietly up to New York, engaged a passage on Saturday's Hamburg-American steamer for Colon, and then slipped over to the Laminian in a closed cab when he thought we weren't keeping tab on him. But, pshaw! you know all this already, don't you?"
"Not all of it," replied McKinnon.
"But you saw that yellow-skinned man who was helped aboard? The sick-looking fellow with the Spanish servant, who was almost carried up from that cab on the wharf?"
McKinnon confessed to some vague remembrance of the incident.
"That man is Ganley!" said the other. "And he's under this deck, down there in cabin fourteen, and you'll find that he's going to stay there until we slip into the roadstead at Puerto Locombia."
