him, then, was his
first duty and this he would begin to carry out in the morning. As to
his meeting his mother and Alec--should he fail with his father--that
must be undertaken with more care, for he could not place himself in the
position of sneaking home and using the joy his return would bring them
as a means to soften his father's heart. Yes, he would find his father
first, then his mother and Alec. If his father received him the others
would follow. If he was repulsed, he must seek out some other way.

This over he would find St. George. He knew exactly where his uncle
was, although he had not said so to Pawson. He was not at Coston's, nor
anywhere in the vicinity of Wesley, but at Craddock, on the bay--a small
country house some miles distant, where he and his dogs had often spent
days and weeks during the ducking season. St. George had settled down
there to rest and get away from his troubles; that was why he had not
answered Pawson's letters.

Striding along with his alert, springing step, he swung through the
deserted and unguarded Marsh Market, picked his way between the piles of
produce and market carts, and plunging down a narrow street leading to
the wharf, halted before a door over which swung a lantern burning a
green light. Here he entered.

Although it was now near midnight, there were still eight or ten
seafaring men in the room--several of them members of his own crew
aboard the Mohican. Two were playing checkers, the others crowded about
a square table where a game of cards was in progress; wavy lines of
tobacco smoke floated beneath the dingy ceiling; at one end was a
small bar where a man in a woollen shirt was filling some short, thick
tumblers from an earthen jug. It was the ordinary sailors' retreat where
the men put up before, between, and after their voyages.

One of them at the card-table looked up from his game as Harry entered,
and called out:

"Man been lookin' for you--comin' back, he says. My trick! Hearts,
wasn't it?" (this to his companions).

"Do I know him?" asked Harry with a slight start, pausing on his way
to his bedroom upstairs, where he had left his bag of clothes two hours
before. Could he have been recognized and shadowed?

"No--don't think so; he's a street vendor. Got some China silks to
sell--carries his pack on his back and looks as if he'd took up a extry
'ole in his belt. Hungry, I wouldn't wonder. Wanted to h'ist 'em fur
a glass o' grog an' a night's lodgin',