"'Ello," he said surlily. "Wot's th' row?"
"'Oo," interrogated old Bob, holding the boat steady by grasping the stage, "was th' party wot engyged yer larst night, Bill?"
"Party name o' Allytheer," growled the drowsy one. "W'y?"
"Party 'ere's lookin' for 'im. Where'll I find this Allytheer?"
"Best look sharp 'r yer won't find 'im," retorted the one above. "'E was at anchor off Bow Creek larst night."
Kirkwood's heart leaped in hope. "What sort of a vessel was she?" he asked, half rising in his eagerness.
"Brigantine, sir."
"Thank—you!" replied Kirkwood explosively, resuming his seat with uncalculated haste as old Bob, deaf to the amenities of social intercourse in an emergency involving as much as ten-bob, shoved off again.
And again the boat was flying down in midstream, the leaden waters, shot with gold of the morning sun, parting sullenly beneath its bows.
The air was still, heavy and tepid; the least exertion brought out beaded moisture on face and hands. In the east hung a turgid sky, dull with haze, through which the mounting sun swam like a plaque of brass; overhead it was clear and cloudless, but besmirched as if the polished mirror of the heavens had been fouled by the breath of departing night.