The logs were found in the main cabin behind the canary's cage; two of them, one kept by Trent, one by Goddedaal. Wicks looked first at one, then at the other, and his lip stuck out.
“Can you forge hand of write?” he asked.
“No,” said Carthew.
“There's luck for you—no more can I!” cried the captain. “Hullo! here's worse yet, here's this Goddedaal up to date; he must have filled it in before supper. See for yourself: 'Smoke observed.—Captain Kirkup and five hands of the schooner Currency Lass.' Ah! this is better,” he added, turning to the other log. “The old man ain't written anything for a clear fortnight. We'll dispose of your log altogether, Mr. Goddedaal, and stick to the old man's—to mine, I mean; only I ain't going to write it up, for reasons of my own. You are. You're going to sit down right here and fill it in the way I tell you.”
“How to explain the loss of mine?” asked Carthew.
“You never kept one,” replied the captain. “Gross neglect of duty. You'll catch it.”
“And the change of writing?” resumed Carthew. “You began; why do you stop and why do I come in? And you'll have to sign anyway.”
“O! I've met with an accident and can't write,” replied Wicks.
“An accident?” repeated Carthew. “It don't sound natural. What kind of an accident?”
Wicks spread his hand face-up on the table, and drove a knife through his palm.
“That kind of an accident,” said he. “There's a way to draw to windward of most difficulties, if you've a head on your shoulders.” He began to bind up his hand with a handkerchief, glancing the while over Goddedaal's log. “Hullo!” he said, “this'll never do for us—this is an impossible kind of a yarn. Here,
