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The one remaining piece of furniture was a queer kind of

book-shelf nailed against the wall. It was fully five feet long

and protruded a foot out above his bed. In its thirty-odd

pigeonholes was jammed a collection of stuff that was evidently

the accumulation of years. There were scores of cheap paper-bound

novels concerning either high society or great detectives, old

tobacco-boxes, broken pipes, string, wrapping-paper, and all the

what-not of a general depository.

With hours on his hands and nothing whatever to occupy him, Code

began to sort over the lurid literature with a view to his

entertainment. He hauled a great dusty bundle out of one

pigeonhole, and found among the novels some dusty exercise books.

He inspected them curiously. On the stiff board cover of one was

scrawled, "Log Schooner M. C. Burns; M. C. Burns, master."