the back garden gate.
I had coughed and made as much noise as possible in approaching the
cook's domains, but they had been so much engrossed with each other that
they did not hear me. Dan sprang hastily off the table, and suddenly
assumed a deeply respectful air.

"Dan," said I, "take this note to Mr Stuart as quickly as possible, and
bring me an answer without delay. I am going to see Haco Barepoles
at--"

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Susan with a start, and looking at me
interrogatively.

"Oh, I forgot, Susan; your father has just arrived from Aberdeen, and is
at this moment in the Sailors' Home. You may run down to see him, my
girl, if you choose."

"Thank you, sir," said Susan, with a glow of pleasure on her
good-looking face, as she pushed the tea-pot from her, and dropt the
cloth, in her haste to get away to see her sire.

"Stay, Susan," said I; "you need not hurry back. In fact, you may spend
the day with your father, if you choose; and tell him that I will be
down to see him in a few minutes. But I shall probably be there before
you. You may take Mr Stuart's answer to the Home," I added, turning to
Dan; "I shall be there when you return with it."

"_Yes_, sir," said Dan in a tone so energetic as to cause me to look at
him. I observed that he was winking towards the kitchen door. Casting
my eyes thither I saw that Susan's face was much flushed as he
disappeared into the passage. I also noted that the cook's face was
fiery red, and that she stirred a large pot, over which she bent, with
unnecessary violence--viciously, as it were.

Pondering on these things I crossed my garden and proceeded towards the
Home, which stood on a conspicuous eminence near the docks, at the east
end of the town.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE SAILORS' HOME AND THE MAD SKIPPER.

The Sailors' Home in Wreckumoft was a neat, substantial, unpretending
edifice, which had been built by a number of charitable people, in order
to provide a comfortable residence, with board at moderate terms, for
the numerous seamen who frequented our port. It also served as a place
of temporary refuge to the unfortunate crews of the numerous wrecks
which occurred annually on our shores.

Here I found Haco Barepoles, the skipper of a coal sloop, seated on the
side of his bed in one of the little berths of the Home, busily engaged
in stuffing tobacco into the bowl of a great German pipe with the point
of his little finger. Susan, who had outstripped me