“No. Stop here till Sir Risdon comes down, and tell him I’m very sorry; that we should have cleared out last night, only a born fool saw Jerry Nandy’s lobster-boat coming into the cove, and came running to say it was a party from the cutter.”
“Yes, father.”
“Tell him not to be uneasy; ’tis all right, and I’ll have everything clear away to-night.”
The dull sound of departing steps, and a low whistling sound coming down through the skylight window into the cabin where Archy Raystoke lay with his heavy eyelids pressed down by sleep.
“What a queer dream!” he thought to himself. “No; it couldn’t be a dream. He must be awake. But how queer for Mr Gurr to be talking like that to Andrew Teal, the boy who helped the cook! And why did Andy call Mr Gurr father?”
There was an interval of thinking over this knotty question, during which the low whistling went on.
“If Mr Brough goes on deck and catches that boy whistling, there’ll be someone to pay and no pitch hot,” thought Archy nautically. “But what did Mr Gurr mean about going home to breakfast? And I’m hungry too. Time I was up, I suppose.”
He gave himself a twist, and was about to turn out of his sleeping place, and then opened his eyes widely, and stared about him, too much overcome still by his heavy sleep to quite comprehend why it was that he was in a gloomy, oak-panelled, poorly furnished room, staring at an iron-barred open window.
No: he was not dreaming, for he was looking out on the sea, over which a faint mist hung like wreaths of smoke. It was just before sunrise too, for there were flecks of orange high up in the sky.
What did it mean?