“He might be anywhere,” said the skipper, meditating.
“He would be sure to be where there are ships,” said the old lady; “I’m certain of it. You see he was captain of a ship himself a good many years, and for one thing he couldn’t live away from the water, and for another it’s the only way he has of getting a living, poor man—unless he’s gone to sea again, which isn’t likely.”
“Coasting trade, I suppose?” said the skipper, glancing at two or three small craft which were floating in oil round the walls.
The old lady nodded. “Those were his ships,” she said, following his glance; “but the painters never could get the clouds to please him. I shouldn’t think there was a man in all England harder to please with clouds than he was.”
“What sort of looking man is he?” inquired Wilson.
“I’ll get you a portrait,” said the old lady, and she rose and left the room.
The girl from her seat in the window by the geraniums stitched on steadily. The skipper, anxious to appear at his ease, coughed gently three times, and was on the very verge of a remark—about the weather—when she turned her head and became absorbed in something outside. The skipper fell to regarding the clouds again with even more disfavor than the missing captain himself could have shown.
“That was taken just before he disappeared,” said the old lady, entering the room again and handing him a photograph. “You can keep that.”
The skipper took it and gazed intently at the likeness of a sturdy full-bearded man of about sixty. Then he placed it carefully in his breast-pocket and rose to his feet.
“And if I should happen to drop across him,” he said slowly, “what might his name be?”