In pursuit of this idea he went at once to Falmouth and began to make inquiries, first at the police stations and post-offices, and afterward among the fishermen. At Falmouth no one could answer his questions, till at last an old gray-beard told him that he'd heard of the place and believed it was somewhere farther west. At Penzance and Newlyn Peter could hear nothing, and he walked westward to Mousehole, determined that if he heard nothing there he would go on to the Scilly Islands. At Mousehole people laughed at him. One man to whom he spoke was so amused that he called out to a group of fishermen standing on the quay waiting for the tide to float their boats.
“Gen'elman wants to know where Hi-Brasil is.”
“Then he'll have to go farther west,” said one.
“To the Scillies?” asked Peter.
“Aye, and farther than that.”
“A long way farther than that,” said another. “It's an old wives' tale, mister. Stout ships that sail westward and never come back to port again have their last moorings at Hi-Brasil, so the saying goes. You ask Old John there. He's the only man that talks about Hi-Brasil, and he's daft.”
An old man whose broad back was bent with the weight of many years was hobbling toward him, and Peter knew that at last he was on the right track. The old fisherman who was coming down the quay was none other than the man he had seen sailing in the Maeldune with the Sea Girl.
“Hi-Brasil?” asked Old John. “What d'you want with Hi-Brasil?”
“I want to go there.”
“Then I'm the man to take 'ee. But mark 'ee, mister, I can't bring 'ee back.”