The deck of the derelict presented as dismal a scene as had her hulk. The seams gaped whitely, and the litter of broken spars and mildewed canvas showed only too plainly through what an ordeal she had passed before being abandoned. Ensign Conkling lost no time in making his way down a companionway leading into what had been the captain’s quarters astern. The two Dreadnought Boys, thus left to themselves, walked forward toward the deck-house. This erection, which had once been painted white, had been almost torn from the deck by the fury of the storm which had resulted in the casting away of the _Donna Mercedes_. Its doorway hung by one hinge, flapping to and fro in melancholy rhythm as the ship rolled to the swell. “It’s a good while since any one made their way in here,” remarked Ned, as he plunged through the portal into the dark interior of the place. The house had apparently been utilized as both a bunk house for the inferior officers of the _Donna Mercedes_ and likewise as a kind of galley. Cooking utensils lay higgledy-piggledy about the rusty stove, and in the forepart of the deck-house were a few rude bunks. The tumbled state of the bedclothes, still lying in these, showed that the ship must have been abandoned in a hurry. Suddenly something white stuffed into a crack near the ceiling of the place caught Ned’s eye. “Papers!” he exclaimed. “Let’s have a look at them, Herc.” “All right,” agreed Herc, bending over Ned’s shoulder as, having pulled the bundle from its place, the Dreadnought Boy moved toward the door and the light. The papers which Ned found proved to be a mass of water-soaked writing in faded ink, consisting of two or three pages. “Well, they are doubtless very interesting, but unfortunately for us we can’t read them,” exclaimed Ned, in a tone of disappointment, as the bright sunlight fell on the moldy writing. “Why not?” “Because it is written in Spanish. Hullo! here’s a signature. Well, we can make that out, anyway. Let’s see, Maritano de Guzman. And look here, Herc, here’s the remains of a seal.” “Well, what are you going to do with them?” asked Herc curiously. To him the bundle was simply so much old junk. Ned, however, had a dash of the romantic mingled with his intensely practical qualities, and he thrust the papers into his blouse. “I’ll give them to Lieutenant Timmons, I guess,” he said; “he may be able to understand what all the writing is about. I can’t, and am not going to try to.” “Who do you suppose Maritano what-you-may-call-um was?” asked Herc. “Haven’t the faintest idea,” laughed Ned lightly. “Some sea cook, I imagine, for he seemed to have his quarters in the galley.