“See here, Cupples. Come with me to-night and see the man. If you heard him talk you would see the inhumanity—” “Tush. I’m not fool enough to mix up in such a matter, and look here, you’ll have to work it pretty slick if you get yourself out. The man will be caught as sure as fate; then knowingly or through fright he’ll incriminate you.” “What would you do if you were in my place?” “My dear sir, don’t put it that way. It’s a reflection on both my judgment and my legal knowledge. I _couldn’t_ be in such a scrape. But, as a lawyer—minus the fee—I’ll tell you what _you_ should do. You should give the man up before witnesses—before _witnesses_. I’ll be one of them myself. Get as many of the cabin passengers as you like out here, to-day, and let the officers search. If he charges you with what the law terms support, deny it, and call attention to the fact that you have given information. By the way, I would give written information and keep a copy.” “I gave the man my word not to inform on him and so I can’t do it to-day, but I’ll tell him of it to-night.” “And have him commit suicide or give himself up first and incriminate you? Nonsense. Just release yourself from your promise. That’s all. He’ll trust you.” “Yes, poor wretch, I’m afraid he will.” About ten o’clock that night I resolved to make another appeal to Roger Cupples to at least stand off and hear the man talk. Cupples’ state-room, No. 96, was in the forward part of the steamer, down a long passage and off a short side passage. Mine was aft the cabin. The door of 96 was partly open, and inside an astonishing sight met my gaze. There stood my stowaway. He was evidently admiring himself in the glass, and with a brush was touching up his face with dark paint here and there. When he put on a woe-begone look he was the stowaway; when he chuckled to himself he was Roger Cupples, Esq. The moment the thing dawned on me I quietly withdrew and went up the forward companion way. Soon Cupples came cautiously up and seeing the way clear scudded along in the darkness and hid in the aft wheelhouse. I saw the whole thing now. It was a scheme to get me to make a fool of myself some fine day before the rest of the passengers and have a standing joke on me. I walked forward. The first officer was on duty. “I have reason to believe,” I said, “that there is a stowaway in the aft wheelhouse.” Quicker than it takes me to tell it a detachment of sailors were sent aft under the guidance of the third mate. I went through the saloon and smoking room, and said to the gentlemen who were playing cards and reading—“There’s a row upstairs of some kind.” We were all on deck before the crew had surrounded the wheelhouse. There was a rattle of steamer folded chairs, a pounce by the third mate, and out came the unfortunate Cupples, dragged by the collar. “Hold on; let go. This is a mistake.” “You can’t both hold on and let go,” said Stalker, of Indiana.