y of a
defunct four-wheeler blocked up half the entrance, and a retriever came
out of his kennel at the other end and barked savagely.

"That's the house," said Wilson, indicating it--"number five. What's the
matter?"

For Miss Gething, after making little dabs with her handkerchief at lips
which did not require the attention, was furtively applying it to eyes
which did.

"I'm tired," she said softly--"tired and disappointed."

She hesitated a moment, and then before Wilson had quite made up his
mind what to do, moved proudly away and knocked at the door of number
five. It was opened after some delay by an untidy woman in crackers and
a few other things, who having listened to the skipper's explanation,
admitted Miss Gething to her father's room. She then saw the skipper to
the door again, and having wished him a somewhat grim good-night, closed
the door.

He walked back as sharply as he could to the schooner, his mind in a
whirl with the events of the evening, and as he neared the quay broke
into a run, in awkward imitation of a small figure approaching from the
opposite direction.

"You little vagabond!" he panted, seizing him by the collar as they
reached the schooner together.

"A'right," said Henry; "'ave it your own way then."

"Drop him overboard," said the mate, who was standing on the deck.

Henry indulged in a glance of contempt--made safe by the darkness--at
this partisan, and with the air of one who knows that he has an
interesting yarn to spin, began at the beginning and worked slowly up
for his effects. The expediency of brevity and point was then tersely
pointed out to him by both listeners, the highly feminine trait of
desiring the last page first being strongly manifested.

"I can't make head or tail of it," said the skipper, after the artist
had spoilt his tale to suit his public. "He's taken fright at something
or other. Well, we'll go after him."

"They're getting away at about one," said the mate; "and suppose he
won't come, what are you going to do then? After all, it mightn't be her
father. Damned unsatisfactory I call it!"

"I don't know what to do," said the bewildered skipper; "I don't know
what's best."

"Well, it ain't my business," said Henry, who had been standing by
silently; "but I know what I should do."

Both men leaned forward eagerly.

"I may be a young vagabond," said Henry, enjoying to the full this
tribute to his powers--"p'raps I am. I may be put to bed by a se