They reached Stourwich soon after midday, and Glover, keeping a wary look out for Wilson, proceeded slowly to the quay with his friend, leaving the latter to walk down and discover the schooner while he went and hired a first-floor room at the “Royal Porpoise,” a little bow-windowed tavern facing the harbor.
“That’s the one,” said Mr. Tillotson, as he joined his friend upstairs and led him to the window; “that little craft there. See that old chap working with the rest?”
Mr. Glover, who was focussing a pair of cheap field-glasses on to the schooner, gave a little exclamation of surprise.
“That’s him, sure enough,” he said, putting down the glasses. “Now what are we to do?”
At Tillotson’s suggestion they had some dinner, and Glover fumed the afternoon away, while his friend hung about the quay. After tea his impatience got the better of his caution, and, pulling his hat over his eyes, he went on the quay too. Fifty yards beyond the Seamew he found a post, and leaning against it with his friend, anxiously watched the deck of the schooner.
“There’s three of ’em going ashore,” said Tillotson suddenly. “Look!”
They watched breathlessly as the crew walked slowly off, and, dusk coming on, approached a little closer.
“There’s that fellow Wilson,” said Glover, in a whisper. “Don’t look!”
“Well, what’s the use of telling me?” said Tillotson reasonably.
“He’s going ashore with another chap,” continued Glover excitedly— “the mate, I expect. Now’s your chance. Get him away, and I’ll stand you something handsome—upon my soul I will!”