He lifted his cap awkwardly and descended. Annis, with her head at an uncomfortable altitude, set off with the skipper.
“I’m sorry the mate wouldn’t come,” said the latter stiffly.
After this they went on in silence along the quiet road, Miss Gething realizing instinctively that the man by her side had got a temper equal to at least a dozen of her own. This made her walk a little closer to him, and once, ever so lightly, her hand brushed against his. The skipper put his hands in his jacket pockets.
They reached the late habitation of the mysterious Captain Gething without another word having been spoken on the journey. The mews was uninviting enough by daylight, by night it was worse. The body of a defunct four-wheeler blocked up half the entrance, and a retriever came out of his kennel at the other end and barked savagely.
“That’s the house,” said Wilson, indicating it—“number five. What’s the matter?”
For Miss Gething, after making little dabs with her handkerchief at lips which did not require the attention, was furtively applying it to eyes which did.
“I’m tired,” she said softly—“tired and disappointed.”
She hesitated a moment, and then before Wilson had quite made up his mind what to do, moved proudly away and knocked at the door of number five. It was opened after some delay by an untidy woman in crackers and a few other things, who having listened to the skipper’s explanation, admitted Miss Gething to her father’s room. She then saw the skipper to the door again, and having wished him a somewhat grim good-night, closed the door.
He walked back as sharply as he could to the schooner, his mind in a whirl with the events of the evening, and as he neared the quay broke into a run, in awkward imitation of a small figure approaching from the opposite direction.
“You little vagabond!” he panted, seizing him by the collar as they reached the schooner together.