A crafty look came into Jensen’s eyes. “Two feet is it?” he said. “Why, I just boarded a little space in the back of the hold to keep my cabin warm.” Once more Sheridan glanced at the steamship manager. “You didn’t need to board up a space two feet wide to keep your cabin warm. Six inches would have been plenty. Why, that cuts down the cargo space tremendously. We’ll have to have that partition down. I want to know exactly how much I can carry in this boat. And besides, there might be some rotten planks in the hull in that two-foot space. I’d like to look in there.” “Tear out your partition,” said Mr. Morgan. “This man is entitled to see every part of the boat before he buys her.” “I ain’t got nothin’ to do it with,” said Jensen. “I’ll do it to-night and he can have a look at her to-morrow.” “That won’t do. I’ve got to choose between this boat and another this very morning. Surely you’ve got a hatchet. What did you use to put the partition up?” “No, I ain’t got no hatchet,” replied Jensen, very sullenly. Mr. Morgan stepped to the hatchway and called to a hand on the tug. “Bring me an axe,” he said. In a second the fellow dropped through the hatchway with an axe. Mr. Morgan directed him to knock down the partition. The man from the tug drove his axe blade between two of the partition boards and pried one loose. Some tightly stuffed burlap bags promptly bulged into the space he had opened. He tore off one board after another and the bulging sacks came tumbling out on the floor of the lighter. They were filled with cotton. “What does this mean?” demanded Mr. Morgan, confronting the sullen barge captain. “Where did this cotton come from and how did it get behind this false partition?” “I don’t know,” growled Jensen. “I never seen it before. I didn’t know it was behind there.” “See here, Jensen,” said Sheridan, stepping up to the boatman. “The jig is up. You are under arrest for grand larceny,” and he threw back his coat, displaying on his vest the glittering shield of the Secret Service. “I don’t know nothin’ about that cotton,” persisted Jensen. “There’s no use lying about it,” said Sheridan sharply. “We’ve got you dead to rights and you’ll go to prison as sure as you stand here. None of that.” He leaped forward, grabbed the boatman’s right hand, and whirled the fellow around. From the man’s hip pocket he drew a loaded revolver. Deftly he “frisked” his prisoner, and finding no other weapons on him, let go of him. “Now, Jensen,” he said, “we’ve got you right. You will only hurt yourself by lying. You may help yourself if you tell the truth. Where did this cotton come from?” “From bales we carried to the New Haven pier.” “When?” “Just this week.” “How much is there?” “I don’t know. I didn’t weigh it.” “But you have a pretty good idea of what it will weigh. What does one of these bags weigh?” “About seventy-five pounds, I guess,” replied Jensen.