The very next morning, as I was cooking a haddock for breakfast, one of my men put his head into the little cabin.
“Are you expecting any one from Southend, sir?” he said. “There’s a man coming out in the skiff, and I think he’s making for us. Seems in a hurry too.”
I stepped outside and looked in the direction indicated, and there, sure enough, was a rowing-boat coming along at a great pace, and apparently heading directly for the steam launch. As soon as the skiff was within hailing distance its occupant looked over his shoulder, relinquished a scull, and, arching his hand to windward over his mouth, hailed us lustily.
“Ahoy there! Are you the ‘Maybelle’?”
“‘Maybelle’ it is,” I bellowed, and, once more bending to his task, the fellow was alongside of us in half a minute.
“Mr. Max Rissler?” he inquired.
“Yes, my man, I’m Mr. Rissler. What is it?” I replied.
“A letter, sir. I was to be as quick as I could about it,” he said, handing me with his right hand a note which he had taken from the lining of his cap, and smearing his forehead with the back of his left hand, as if to hint that if he were damp outside he was dry within.
“Give him some beer,” I said to my skipper, as I opened the note.
It was in Grant’s writing, and was as follows:—