Chapter Twenty Six.
Mad Haco startled at last.
That evening Haco Barepoles was seen on the road to Cove, with his coat-skirts, his cravat-ends, and his hair streaming in the breeze.
An hour previously, however, a brass band was seen walking towards the same place, and, half an hour after that, a young midshipman was observed posting rapidly in the same direction.
It was dark when Gildart entered the village, and all the inhabitants were in their dwellings, so that he reached Gaff’s cottage unperceived.
The village was a primitive one. Locks were deemed unnecessary in most of the cottages, probably because there was nothing worth stealing within them. Gildart lifted the latch and entered. A fire, nearly out, with a large piece of coal on it, burned in the grate. The flicker of this was sufficient to illuminate the boudoir faintly.
Having surveyed the apartment, examined the closet, and looked under the bed, he went out, and, going to the back of the cottage, found the band waiting in some anxiety.
“Now, lads, come this way,” said Gildart; “and there’s only one piece of advice I’ve got to give you: don’t stir hand or foot after Haco enters the cottage. He’s as big as an elephant, and strong as a lion. If you stir, and he finds you out, he won’t spare you.”
“But you promise to come to the rescue, master,” said the French horn in some alarm.