Another half-hour elapsed, with the stout ferryman taking life easily at the bottom of the boat, and with the passenger gaining inside information as to the treacherous nature of a small boat when anchored in deep waters. Then, for the third time, Mr. Clark appraised the state of his passenger and decided that the time for convalescence had come.
Heartily remarking that the rest had done him a world of good, he resumed his seat and began to scull towards the harbour with the greatest of ease. His passenger, drooping woefully in his place, evidenced no emotion whatever at this impending termination to his troubles.
In excellent style Mr. Clark regained the sanctuary of the harbour and drew near to the quay. Mr. Peter Lock, an alert sentinel there for some while past, was waiting to greet him.
“Oh, poor fellow!” sympathized Mr. Lock. “He do look ill!”
“You needn’t trouble to feel sorry for ’im, Peter,” said Mr. Clark. “’E’s in that state ’e don’t know what’s ’appening, or whether it’s ’appening to ’im or somebody else. Got a bit of a ’eadache, ain’t you, sir?” he bawled at the passenger.
“Oh!” groaned the sufferer, making feeble gestures with his hands and showing the yellows of his eyes.
“Oh!” he moaned again, and would have collapsed had not Mr. Clark passed a supportive arm round him.
“There you are, Peter. How’s that?” said Mr. Clark, with something of a showman’s pride. “Give me a hand to get ’im out of the boat and up on to the quay. All O.K., I s’pose?” he added, enigmatically.
Mr. Lock nodded.
“She’s going to ’ave tea with ’Orace’s missis, and she’s there now. She’s been up to the station twice to see if a Mr. Briblett ’ad arrived, but there was no trace of ’im.”