The Skippers Wooing | Page 8

cook washed the mug up, and, preferring the dusty deck to the heat of the fire, sat down to wash a bowl of potatoes. It was a task which lent itself to meditation, and his thoughts, as he looked wistfully at the shore, reverted to Captain Gething and the best means of finding him. It was clear that the photograph was an important factor in the search, and, possessed with a new idea, he left the potatoes and went down to the cabin in search of it. He found it on a shelf in the skipper's state-room, and, passing up on deck again, stepped ashore.
From the first three people he spoke to he obtained no information whatever. They all inspected the photograph curiously and indulged in comments, mostly unfavorable, but all agreed that there was nobody like it in Brittlesea. He had almost given it up as a bad job, and was about to return, when he saw an aged fisherman reclining against a post.
"Fine day, mate," said the cook.
The old man courteously removed a short clay pipe from his puckered mouth in order to nod, and replacing it, resumed his glance seaward.
"Ever seen anybody like that?" inquired the cook, producing the portrait.
The old man patiently removed the pipe again, and taking the portrait, scanned it narrowly.
"It's wonderful how they get these things up nowadays," he said in a quavering voice; "there was nothing like that when you an' me was boys."
"There 'as been improvements," admitted the cook indignantly.
"All oils they was," continued the old man meditatively, "or crains."
"'Ave you ever seen anybody like that?" demanded the cook impatiently.
"Why, o' course I have. I'm goin' to tell you in a minute," said the old man querulously. "Let me see--what's his name again?"
"I don't know 'is name," said the cook untruth-fully.
"I should know it if I was to hear it," said the old man slowly. "Ah, I've got it! I've got it!"
He tapped his head triumphantly, and, with a bleared, shining old eye, winked at the cook.
"My memory's as good as ever it was," he said complacently. "Sometimes I forget things, but they come back. My mother used to be the same, and she lived to ninety-three."
"Lor!" interrupted the anxious cook. "What's the name?"
The old man stopped. "Drat it!" he said, with a worried look, "I've lost it again; but it'll come back."
The cook waited ten minutes for the prodigal. "It ain't Gething, I s'pose?" he said at length.
"No," said the old man; "don't you be in a hurry; it'll come back."
"When?" asked the cook rebelliously.
"It might be in five minutes' time, and it might be in a month," said the old man firmly, "but it'll come back."
He took the portrait from the hands of the now sulky cook and strove to jog his memory with it.
"John Dunn's his name," he cried suddenly. "John Dunn."
"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.
"Take the top off," said the cook courteously.
The stout man, with a nod towards him, complied.
"'Ave a pint with me," said the cook, after a hasty glance into the interior, as the landlord handed him the mug. "You keep that one," he added.
The stout man drew another pint, and subsiding on to his stool with a little sigh, disposed himself for conversation.
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