“Sure there’s closets,” and the sailor pointed to some partitions that opened toward the hold of the barge. Sheridan peered into them eagerly, but they were practically empty. “What’s the size of this cabin?” he asked. “How big a family could live in it? You know most boatmen are married and want to have their families aboard with them.” “It’s about twelve feet long,” said Jensen, “and the width of the boat.” “Now, there ought to be room for some closets in the stern,” said Sheridan, “on either side of the companionway, between the cabin wall and the hull itself.” He stooped down and keenly examined the rear wall. “There ain’t no closets there,” said Jensen, “and there ain’t no room for any, neither. I tried one time to make a closet there. Needed more storage room for myself. The cabin wall is right up against the stern o’ the boat.” Sheridan glanced expressively at Mr. Morgan, but said nothing. Instead, he turned to the boatman. “How long is your craft over all?” he asked. “One hundred feet.” “And you say this rear cabin wall is plumb against the boat’s hull?” “Snug against it.” “How deep are these closets here, forward?” “About three feet. You can see for yourself.” The Secret Service man drew a little searchlight from his vest pocket and stooping, walked through one of the closet doors. He produced a tape and measured the space. “Exactly three feet,” he remarked. “How much cargo can you carry?” he asked, suddenly shifting the subject. “A pile of it,” said Jensen. “She’ll carry more stuff than any boat of her size in the harbor.” “But I must know exactly.” “I can’t tell you exactly.” “Maybe I can figure it myself. Let’s take a look at the hold.” The party came up from the cabin and went forward, dropping through an open hatchway, inside the boat. The hold was bare and perfectly clean. With his tape Sheridan rapidly measured the hold, beginning at the bow and working back toward the cabin in the stern. “Twenty-four feet wide and eighty-three feet long,” he said. He paused a moment, figuring, “Twelve feet for the cabin, three for the closets, and eighty-three for the cargo. That totals ninety-eight feet. There are two feet of space unaccounted for. I don’t pay for one hundred feet of boat if there’s only ninety-eight,” and again he looked significantly at Mr. Morgan. “What about that, Jensen?” asked the steamship manager. “Are you sure this craft is one hundred feet long?” “Come to think of it,” said the boatman uneasily, “it is only ninety-eight feet. I got so used to thinkin’ it was about a hundred that I just called it an even hundred. That’s all it is, sir, ninety-eight feet.” “Well, I’m going to make sure,” said Sheridan. “I don’t buy any boat unless I know exactly what I’m getting.” He climbed to the deck and rapidly measured. “She’s a hundred feet exactly,” he said. And he turned on the boatman severely. “How do you account for those two missing feet?” he demanded.