He glanced at the clock.
“Eight,” he mused. “Half the time since he has put in his auxiliary power Bodfish doesn’t sail until nine. If he got away early this morning it signifies something, that’s all! It isn’t the first time King Bradish has hired him for dirty work.”
He started up and took his hat from the hook. “Wat,” he said, “you stay here and wash up my dishes and make yourself useful until I come back. Don’t you stir out of this house and don’t you say a word to anyone about your wife being gone. If you disobey me I’ll quit you.”
He hurried out of the house and down the street.
It was necessary to go almost to the packet’s berth to determine whether she was there, for the elms loomed high along the shore road. No masts showed above the storehouse when he came in sight of it, but to assure himself the Squire walked out on the wharf and peered around the corner of the building. The packet’s berth was empty and there was no sign of her on the narrow sea line at the mouth of the cove.
“Hard-Times” Wharff stood by one of the hawser piles, looking to sea.
“I wisht I was a garsoline ingine instead of a weather-vane, Squire Look,” confessed the old man, regretfully. “The wind it bloweth where it listeth, sayeth the Scriptur’s, but”—he sucked his tongue to imitate the explosions of an engine, “tchock! tchock! tchock! Garsoline don’t have to wait and list. It can go any time, day or night. I wisht I knowed better how it works, but Nymp’ Bodfish wouldn’t let me aboard this mornin’ to see how it does it.”
“Did he get away early, Uncle Aquarius?”
“I was down here at four to see whuther the sunrise was goin’ to be pink or yaller, ’cause you know a yaller sunrise follerin’ on sun-dogs means——”
“Let the weather stand for a moment,” broke in the Squire, a bit impatiently. “What time was it when Bodfish sailed?”