of his
own mother, while Dick had known him for years as an old and respected
inhabitant of Plymouth. Henry went back to the skipper, and, having
furnished him with this information, meekly suggested that they should
drag Gravesend first.

It was midnight when they got the anchor up and dropped silently down
the river. Gravesend was silent, and the dotted lines of street lamps
shone over a sleeping town as the _Seamew_ crept softly by.

A big steamer in front whistled warningly for the pilot's boat, and
slowing up as the small craft shot out from the shore to meet it, caused
a timely diversion to the skipper's melancholy by lying across his bows.
By the time he had fully recovered from the outrage and had drunk a
cup of coffee, which had been prepared in the galley, Gravesend had
disappeared round the bend, and his voluntary search had commenced.

CHAPTER III.

They made Brittlesea in four days--days in which the skipper, a prey to
gentle melancholy, left things mostly to the mate. Whereupon melancholia
became contagious, and Sam's concertina having been impounded by the
energetic mate, disaffection reared its ugly head in the foc'sle and
called him improper names when he was out of earshot.

They entered the small river on which stands the ancient town of
Brittlesea at nightfall. Business for the day was over. A few fishermen,
pipe in mouth, lounged upon the quay, while sounds of revelry, which in
some mysterious way reminded the crew of their mission to find Captain
Gething, proceeded from the open doors of a small tavern opposite. The
most sanguine of them hardly expected to find him the first time; but,
as Sam said, the sooner they started the better. For all they knew he
might be sitting in that very public-house waiting to be found.

They went ashore a little later and looked for him there, but without
success. All they did find was a rather hot-tempered old man, who,
irritated by the searching scrutiny of the cook, asked him shortly
whether he had lost anything, because, if so, and he, the cook, thought
he was sitting on it, perhaps he'd be good enough to say so. The cook
having replied in fitting terms, they moved off down the quay to the
next tavern. Here they fared no better, Dick declaring that the beer was
if anything worse than the other, and that nobody who had lived in the
place any time would spend his money there. They therefore moved on once
more, and closing time came before their labors