“Never mind about that,” said Peter. “You take me. I'll pay you well.”
“Time enough to talk about payment when we get there,” said the old man. “When do 'ee want to start?”
“At once, if possible.”
“If 'ee really want to go us can start at half-flood.”
Peter assured the old man that he was in earnest, and the latter hobbled away over the cobbles, promising to be back in an hour's time.
“You're never going to sea with Old John, are you, mister?” said one of the fishermen anxiously. “He was a rare bold seaman in his day, but his day has passed this many a year. He was old when we were boys. Old John says he'll last as long as a deep-sea wind-jammer remains afloat. But he's daft. You oughtn't to listen to him. It's all old wives' foolishness about Hi-Brasil.”
But Peter would not be dissuaded, and an hour later, when the pilchard-boats jostled each other between the Mousehole pier-heads, and spread across Mount's Bay for sea-room, Peter and John, in a crazy old mackerel-boat, went with them. The setting sun gleamed on the brown sails of the pilchard fleet, and Peter drew a deep breath of delight. He knew that he would soon see the Sea Maid again.
At midnight the pilchard fleet was a line of riding lights on the horizon behind them. When the sun rose the Scillies lay to the north of them. Passing under the lofty Head of Peninnis, they exchanged hails with a fisherman of St. Mary's who was hauling his lobster-pots.
“Going far?” asked the fisherman.