"There be the Playmate, sir," exclaimed the waterman, resting on his oars and looking over his shoulder. Tregarthen followed the direction of his gaze.
Twenty yards away lay a smart little white cutter. Even in the gloom the sub-lieutenant could distinguish her graceful spoon bow, her short yet becoming quarter, and the businesslike sheer of her sides. Across her boom a canvas awning was lashed over the diminutive cockpit. From the cabin a light flickered upon the awning, and gleamed cheerfully through the fluted glass skylight. To Tregarthen the vision of that light seemed an indescribable comfort. The tedious journey, the disappointment of Stockton's non-appearance, the cheerless welcome of the bleak and desolate harbour—all were forgotten. He had found a haven of rest.
"Playmate, ahoy!"
The waterman jerked one oar into his boat and with the other skilfully checked her way till she gently rubbed sides with the yacht.
"Hallo, there! Is that you, Cartridge?"
"Yes, sir; I've brought a gent off to see you."
There was the sound of a hasty scuffling, the awning was partially unlaced, and a hand holding a lantern appeared, followed by the head and shoulders of the owner of the cutter Playmate.
The rays of the lamp fell upon the features of the owner. He had a somewhat long, thin face, with a characteristically square jaw, and light eyebrows that formed an almost continuous line across his brows.
"Hallo, you!" he exclaimed, as the identity of his visitor was revealed. "I'd given you up."
"So it appears," replied Tregarthen. "Didn't you get my wire?"