"There's no proof. We must have proof. But there's suspicion. We must try to track the youngster, find out what ship he sailed in; and when she comes into port, why, we'll keep an eye on the little chap."
The policeman had no more to say just then, and departed, saying to George, who shouldered his tools and followed him, "I know the boy. A sharp one, isn't he?"
"An honest one, if ever an honest boy lived," was the rejoinder, as George Paterson strode away.
CHAPTER IV.
HIS OWN WAY.
Jack Harrison had no fixed purpose when he rushed out of his aunt's house, except to get away from the sound of her angry words, and from the sight of his mother's grieved face—that face, which bore the marks of so many storms, and which he loved better than any other in the world.
"I had better go," he reasoned with himself. "I may make a fortune. Suppose I go aboard a whaling ship, as my father did. I won't go aboard a smack or trawler; I should not care for that life—handling fish, and out all weathers, north of the Dogger trawling—no, that would not pay, but a good ship would; and I'll take a look round the quay as soon as it's light."
Jack had found the convenient shelter of an old boat on the beach, and there he curled himself up and fell asleep.
He was awoke by feeling something touching his face, and starting up, just distinguished in the dim light the shape of a dog, which began to whine piteously, and licked his hands.