“Fine night, cap’n,” said the watchman, as the schooner came gently alongside the quay.
The skipper grunted assent. He was peering anxiously at the quay.
“It’s too late,” said the mate. “You couldn’t expect her this time o’night. It’s ten o’clock.”
“I’ll go over in the morning,” said Evans, who, now that things had been adjusted, was secretly disappointed that Miss Cooper had not witnessed the meeting. “If you’re not going ashore, we might have a hand o’ cards as soon’s we’re made fast.”
The mate assenting, they went below, and were soon deep in the mysteries of three-hand cribbage. Evans, who was a good player, surpassed himself, and had just won the first game, the others being nowhere, when a head was thrust down the companion-way, and a voice like a strained foghorn called the captain by name.
“Ay, ay!” yelled Evans, laying down his hand.
“I’ll come down, cap’n,” said the voice, and the mate just had time to whisper “Old Jones” to Miss Cooper, when a man of mighty bulk filled up the doorway of the little cabin, and extended a huge paw to Evans and the mate. He then looked at the lady, and, breathing hard, waited.
“Young lady o’ the mate’s,” said Evans breathlessly,—“Miss Cooper. Sit down, cap’n. Get the gin out, Bill.”
“Not for me,” said Captain Jones firmly, but with an obvious effort.
The surprise of Evans and the mate admitted of no concealment; but it passed unnoticed by their visitor, who, fidgeting in his seat, appeared to be labouring with some mysterious problem. After a long pause, during which all watched him anxiously, he reached over the table and shook hands with Evans again.