ow is Wednesday. I shan't be sorry to get another look at this
fellow Pearse....

III

"Friday, 29th July.

.......Why do you ask me so many questions, and egg me on to write about
these people instead of minding my business? If you really want to hear,
I'll tell you of Wednesday's doings.

It was a splendid morning; and Dan turned up, to my surprise--though I
might have known that when he says a thing, he does it. John Ford came
out to shake hands with him, then, remembering why he had come, breathed
loudly, said nothing, and went in again. Nothing was to be seen of
Pasiance, and we went down to the beach together.

"I don't like this fellow Pearse, George," Dan said to me on the way; "I
was fool enough to say I'd go, and so I must, but what's he after? Not
the man to do things without a reason, mind you."

I remarked that we should soon know.

"I'm not so sure--queer beggar; I never look at him without thinking of a
pirate."

The cutter lay in the cove as if she had never moved. There too was
Zachary Pearse seated on the edge of his dinghy.

"A five-knot breeze," he said, "I'll run you down in a couple of hours."
He made no inquiry about Pasiance, but put us into his cockleshell and
pulled for the cutter. A lantern-Jawed fellow, named Prawle, with a
spiky, prominent beard, long, clean-shaven upper lip, and tanned
complexion--a regular hard-weather bird--received us.

The cutter was beautifully clean; built for a Brixham trawler, she still
had her number--DH 113--uneffaced. We dived into a sort of cabin, airy,
but dark, fitted with two bunks and a small table, on which stood some
bottles of stout; there were lockers, too, and pegs for clothes. Prawle,
who showed us round, seemed very proud of a steam contrivance for
hoisting sails. It was some minutes before we came on deck again; and
there, in the dinghy, being pulled towards the cutter, sat Pasiance.

"If I'd known this," stammered Dan, getting red, "I wouldn't have come."
She had outwitted us, and there was nothing to be done.

It was a very pleasant sail. The breeze was light from the south-east,
the sun warm, the air soft. Presently Pasiance began singing:

"Columbus is dead and laid in his grave, Oh! heigh-ho! and laid in his
grave; Over his head the apple-trees wave Oh! heigh-ho! the apple-trees
wave....

"The apples are ripe and ready to fall, Oh! heigh-ho! and ready to fall;
There came an old woman and gathered them all, Oh!