The cook descended without a word, and hastily interring the clothes, not without an uneasy glance seaward, scrambled up the cliff again and rejoined his exultant accomplice. They set off in silence, keeping at some distance from the edge of the cliff.
“Business is business,” said the cook after a time, “and he wouldn’t join the syndikit.”
“He was greedy, and wanted it all,” said Sam with severity.
“P’raps it’ll be a lesson to ’im,” said the cook unctuously. “I took the bearings of the place in case ’e don’t find ’em. Some people wouldn’t ha’ done that.”
They kept on steadily for another hour, until at last they came quite suddenly upon a little fishing village situated on a tiny bay. Two or three small craft were anchored inside the stone pier, along which two or three small children, in all the restriction of Sunday clothes, were soberly pacing up and down.
“This must be it,” said Sam. “Keep your eyes open, cook.”
“What’s the name o’ this place, mate?” said Sam expectantly to an old salt who was passing.
“Stone-pen Quay,” said the old man.
Sam’s face fell. “How far is it to Piggott’s Bay, then?” he inquired.
“To where?” said the old man, taking his pipe out of his mouth and staring hard.