“Where does ’e live?” inquired the cook eagerly.
“Holebourne,” said the old man—“a little place seven miles off the road.”
“Are you sure it’s the same,” asked the cook in a trembling voice.
“Sartain,” said the other firmly. “He come here first about six years ago, an’ then he quarrelled with his landlord and went off to Holebourne.”
The cook, with a flushed face, glanced along the quay to the schooner. Work was still proceeding amid a cloud of white dust, and so far his absence appeared to have passed unnoticed.
“If they want any dinner,” he muttered, alluding to the powdered figures at work on the schooner, “they must get it for theirselves, that’s all. Will you come and ’ave a drop, old man?”
The old man, nothing loath, assented, and having tasted of the cook’s bounty, crawled beside him through the little town to put him on the road to Holebourne, and after seeing him safe, returned to his beloved post.
The cook went along whistling, thinking pleasantly of the discomfiture of the other members of the crew when they should discover his luck. For three miles he kept on sturdily, until a small signboard, projecting from between a couple of tall elms, attracted his attention to a little inn just off the road, at the porch of which a stout landlord sat on a wooden stool waiting for custom.
The cook hesitated a moment, and then marching slowly up, took a stool which stood opposite and ordered a pint.
The landlord rose and in a heavy, leisurely fashion, entered the house to execute the order, and returned carefully bearing a foaming mug.