"Ferry, sir?"
"Do you know of a yacht—a cutter called the Playmate?" asked Tregarthen.
"Can't say as 'ow I does, sir," replied the ferry-man. "But I'll call my mate; maybe he'll know." And placing his hands trumpet-wise to his mouth he shouted: "Buck-up! Buck-up Cartridge, where be ye?"
The echo of the man's powerful voice had barely died away when a hail came from the opposite shore. "Hulloa, there?" immediately followed by the faint splash of oars.
"Old Buck-up'll know if there be any craft o' that name," remarked the ferry-man, and as the new comer's boat rubbed its nose against the quarter of the ferry-boat the query was anxiously repeated.
"Wot, Playmate, owned by a gent o' the name o' Stockton? Why, sure I do. She's lying off the Stakes."
"Can you put me aboard?" asked Tregarthen, a load removed from his mind at the assurance that his chum had not set sail.
"Certainly, sir," replied Cartridge; and, handing his portmanteau to the ferry-man, who in turn passed it on to the second water-man, Tregarthen stepped across the first craft into the second.
With long, easy strokes the boat glided with the still strong ebb past the line of shipping and into the staked channel. Here, being comparatively open, the N.W. wind blew fresh, and the young officer shivered in spite of his experience on the bridge of a destroyer. He missed the thick pilot-coat, and the comforting shelter of the storm-dodgers.
Between long, low banks of reeking mud the boat passed, till at length, a good quarter of a mile from the quay, appeared the dim outlines of half a dozen yachts of all sizes, their anchor-lights gleaming fitfully upon the dew-sodden decks and mainsail covers, and casting broken shafts of light upon the ruffled water.