, he soon reached
the pier, and with the skiff boarded the Greyhound. The night was
certainly favorable for the execution of dark deeds. The midnight
assassin, the incendiary, or the burglar would have rejoiced in its
darkness, its dense black clouds, and its fitful winds.

Richard Grant still felt the cowhide of his enemy tingling upon his
legs, and still felt its iron piercing his soul. The injury he had
received a week before, rankled in his bosom as it had the hour after
it had been inflicted. Neither the time that had elapsed, nor the peril
attending his present enterprise, in any degree moderated the spirit of
revenge that burned in his soul.

As soon as he had secured the skiff at the buoy to which the sail boat
was moored, he opened the door of the stern locker, and drew forth a
small bottle. He shook it to satisfy himself that the contents were
safe, and then restored it to the place from which he had taken it. He
then examined his pockets to assure himself that some other article
necessary for his purpose was all right. No mistakes or omissions had
been made, and he proceeded to hoist the mainsail. He then cast off the
moorings, and hoisted the jib. The wind was too fresh to permit the
Greyhound to carry all sail, and even with what he had set, she put her
rail under the water at the first forward impulse.

One less skilful and courageous than Richard would have been terrified
by the fierce waves and the gloom of the night, especially if bound
upon an errand of evil and crime; but he held the tiller with a steady
hand, and heeded not the spray that broke upon the half-deck of the
Greyhound. A few moments in such a breeze were sufficient to carry him
over the river to the place of rendezvous. The point was as familiar to
him as the pier at Woodville; and as soon as he could obtain a view of
the dark outline of the shore, he ran the boat alongside the point,
with as little difficulty as though it had been broad daylight.

Sandy Brimblecom was not there, and an expression of anger escaped from
the lips of Richard, when he found that the partner of his iniquitous
scheme might possibly fail him. He gave the signal whistle with which
they were in the habit of calling each other; but there was no reply.
The clocks on the churches in Whitestone struck one, and Richard waited
half an hour after he heard them--half an hour, which seemed like half
a day to him.

He was afraid that Sandy's heart had failed him, or th