The Skipper's Wooing, and The Brown Man's Servant. William Wymark Jacobs

yours?" inquired the mate, cautiously.

      "No," said the other.

      "Well, I don't think much of him," said the mate. "Where d'you get it?"

      "It was given to me," said the skipper. "He's missing, and I've got to find him if I can. You might as well keep your eyes open too."

      "Where are you going to look for him?" asked the mate.

      "Everywhere," said the other. "I'm told that he's likely to be in a seaport town, and if you'll be on the look-out I'll take it as a favor."

      "I'll do that, o' course," said the mate. "What's he been doing?"

      "Nothing that I know of," said the skipper; "but he's been missing some five years, and I promised I'd do my best to find him."

      "Friends are anxious, I s'pose?" said the mate.

      "Yes," said the other.

      "I always find," continued the mate, "that women are more anxious in these sort o' cases than men."

      "More tender-hearted," said the skipper.

      "It ain't a bad sort o' face, now I come to look at it," said the baffled mate, regarding it closely. "Seems to me I've seen somebody very much like it—a girl, I think—but I can't say where."

      "Bearded lady at a fair, I should think," said the skipper bluffly.

      Conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Henry, who, seeing the photograph in the mate's hand, at once began putting the butter away. A glance told him that the mate was holding it upside down, and conscience told him that this was for his benefit. He therefore rigidly averted his gaze while clearing the table, and in a small mental ledger, which he kept with scrupulous care for items such as these, made a debit entry in the mate's account.

      "Boy," said the skipper suddenly.

      "Sir," said Henry.

      "You're a fairly sharp youngster, I think," said the skipper. "Take hold o' that photo there."

      Henry's face suffused with a great joy. He looked derisively at the mate and took the photograph from him, listening intently to much the same instructions as had been previously given to the mate. "And you can take it for'ard," concluded the skipper, "and let the men see it."

      "The men?" said Henry in astonishment.

      "Yes, the men; don't I speak plain?" retorted the skipper.

      "Very plain, sir," said the boy; "but they'll only make a muddle of it, sir. Fancy fat Sam and the cook and Dick!"

      "Do as you're told!" said the other irascibly.

      "O' course, sir," said Henry, "but they'll only worry me with a lot o' questions as to who 'e is an' wot you want 'im for."

      "You take it for'ard," said the skipper, "and tell them there's a couple of sovereigns for the first man that finds him."

      The youth took the photograph, and after another careful scrutiny, with the object of getting a start in the race for wealth, took it forward. Fat Sam, it seemed, had seen the very man only two days before at Poplar; the cook knew his features as well as he knew those of his own mother, while Dick had known him for years as an old and respected inhabitant of Plymouth. Henry went back to the skipper, and, having furnished him with this information, meekly suggested that they should drag Gravesend first.

      It was midnight when they got the anchor up and dropped silently down the river. Gravesend was silent, and the dotted lines of street lamps shone over a sleeping town as the Seamew crept softly by.

      A big steamer in front whistled warningly for the pilot's boat, and slowing up as the small craft shot out from the shore to meet it, caused a timely diversion to the skipper's melancholy by lying across his bows. By the time he had fully recovered from the outrage and had drunk a cup of coffee, which had been prepared in the galley, Gravesend had disappeared round the bend, and his voluntary search had commenced.

      CHAPTER III

      They made Brittlesea in four days—days in which the skipper, a prey to gentle melancholy, left things mostly to the mate. Whereupon melancholia became contagious, and Sam's concertina having been impounded by the energetic mate, disaffection reared its ugly head in the foc'sle and called him improper names when he was out of earshot.

      They entered the small river on which stands the ancient town of Brittlesea at nightfall. Business for the day was over. A few fishermen, pipe in mouth, lounged upon the quay, while sounds of revelry, which in some mysterious way reminded the crew of their mission to find Captain Gething, proceeded from the open doors of a small tavern opposite. The most sanguine of them hardly expected to find him the first time; but, as Sam said, the sooner they started the better. For all they knew he might be sitting in that very public-house waiting to be found.

      They went ashore a little later and looked for him there, but without success. All they did find was a rather hot-tempered old man, who, irritated by the searching scrutiny of the cook, asked him shortly whether he had lost anything, because, if so, and he, the cook, thought he was sitting on it, perhaps he'd be good enough to say so. The cook having replied in fitting terms, they moved off down the quay to the next tavern. Here they fared no better, Dick declaring that the beer was if anything worse than the other, and that nobody who had lived in the place any time would spend his money there. They therefore moved on once more, and closing time came before their labors were half completed.

      "It's quite a little romans," said Sam thickly, as he was pushed outside the last house of call, and a bolt shot desolately behind him. "Where shall we go now?"

      "Get back to the ship," said Dick; "come along."

      "Not 'fore I foun' 'im," said Sam solemnly, as he drew back from Dick's detaining hand.

      "You won't find him to-night, Sam," said the cook humorsomely.

      "Why not?" said Sam, regarding him with glassy eyes. "We came out fin' 'im!"

      "Cos it's dark, for one thing," said the cook.

      Sam laughed scornfully.

      "Come on!" said Dick, catching him by the arm again.

      "I come out fin' cap'n, cap'n—fin' 'im," said Sam. "I'm not goin' back 'thout 'im."

      He rolled off down the road, and the two men, the simple traditions of whose lives forbade them to leave a shipmate when in that condition, followed him, growling. For half an hour they walked with him through the silent streets of the little town. Dick with difficulty repressing his impatience as the stout seaman bent down at intervals and thoroughly searched doorsteps and other likely places for the missing man. Finally, he stopped in front of a small house, walked on a little way, came back, and then, as though he had suddenly made up his mind, walked towards it.

      "Hold him, cook!" shouted Dick, throwing his arms around him.

      The cook flung his arms round Sam's neck, and the two men, panting fiercely, dragged him away.

      "Now you come aboard, you old fool!" said Dick, losing his temper; "we've had enough o' your games."

      "Leg go!" said Sam, struggling.

      "You leave that knocker alone, then," said Dick warningly.

      "'E's in there!" said Sam, nodding wisely at the house.

      "You come back, you old fool!" repeated Dick. "You never 'ort to 'ave nothin' stronger than milk."

      "Ole my coat, cookie!" said Sam, his manner changing suddenly to an alarming sternness.

      "Don't be a fool, Sam!" said the cook entreatingly.

      "'Ole my coat!" repeated Sam, eyeing him haughtily.

      "You know you haven't got a coat on," said the cook appealingly. "Can't you see it's a jersey? You ain't so far gone as all that!"

      "Well, 'ole me while I take it off," said Sam, sensibly.

      Against his better sense the cook steadied the stout seaman while he proceeded to peel, Dick waited until the garment—a very tight one—was over his head, and then, pushing the cook aside, took his victim and made him slowly gyrate on the pavement.

      "Turn