incredible folly.

Somewhere out yonder Captain Coffin was waiting in his shore-boat.
I listened, minute after minute, on the chance of hearing his hail.
A heavy bank of cloud had overcast the moon, and the packet melted
from sight in a blur of darkness. Worst of all--worse even than the
sting of self-reproach--was the prospect of returning to Stimcoe's
and wearing through the night, while out there in the darkness the
two men would meet, and all that followed their meeting must happen
unseen by me.

This ordeal appeared so dreadful to me in prospect that I began to
cast about among all manner of impracticable plans for escaping it.
Of these the most promising--although I had no money--was to give the
Stimcoes leg-bail and run home; the most alluring, too, since it
offered to deaden the torment of uncertainty by keeping me employed,
mind and body. I must follow the coach-road. In imagination I
measured back the distance. If George Goodfellow walked to Plymouth
and back once a week, why might not I succeed in walking to Minden
Cottage? Home was home. I should get counsel and comfort there;
counsel from my father and comfort most assuredly from Plinny.
I needed both, and in Falmouth just now there was none of either.
Even Captain Branscome, who might have helped me--

At this point a sudden thought fetched me up with a jerk. The enemy,
by pursuing after Captain Danny, had at least left me a clear coast.
I was safe for a while against his spying, and consequently the
embargo was off. I had no need to wait for morning. I could go
myself to the old man's lodgings, unlock the corner cupboard, and
bring away the roll of papers.

I dived my hand into my breech-pocket for the forgotten key. It was
small, and of a curious, intricate pattern. Almost before my fingers
closed upon it my mind was made up. Stimcoe's--that is, if I decided
to return to Stimcoe's--might wait. I might yet decide to break
ship--as Captain Danny would have put it--and make a push for home;
but that decision, too, must wait. Meanwhile, here was an urgent
errand, and a clear coast for it; here was occupation and
inexpressible relief. It's an ill wind that blows nobody some good.

I set off at a run. On my way I met and passed half a dozen gangs of
hilarious ex-prisoners and equally hilarious townsmen escorting them
to the waterside, where the coxswains of the transport's boats were
by this time blowing impatient calls on their whistles.