"It's a clear case of bolt," said Jim. "He's skipped,
or my name's not Pinkerton. He's gone to head us off
at Midway Island."
Somehow I was not so sure; there were elements in the
case not known to Pinkerton--the fears of the captain,
for example--that inclined me otherwise; and the idea
that I had terrified Mr. Dickson into flight, though
resting on so slender a foundation, clung obstinately
in my mind.
"Shouldn't we see the list of passengers?" I asked.
"Dickson is such a blamed common name," returned Jim;
"and then, as like as not, he would change it."
At this I had another intuition. A negative of a
street scene, taken unconsciously when I was absorbed
in other thought, rose in my memory with not a feature
blurred: a view, from Bellairs's door as we were coming
down, of muddy roadway, passing drays, matted telegraph
wires, a China-boy with a basket on his head, and
(almost opposite) a corner grocery with the name of
Dickson in great gilt letters.
"Yes," said I, "you are right; he would change it. And
anyway, I don't believe it was his name at all; I
believe he took it from a corner grocery beside
Bellairs's.
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