The Skippers Wooing | Page 8

his head, and then, pushing the cook aside, took his victim and
made him slowly gyrate on the pavement.
"Turn round three times and catch who you can, Sam," he said cruelly.
"Well, sit down, then."
He lowered him to the pavement, and, accompanied by the cook, drew
off and left him to his fate. Their last glance showed them a stout,
able-bodied seaman, with his head and arms confined in a jersey, going
through contortions of an extraordinary nature to free himself, and
indulging in language which, even when filtered by the garment in
question, was of a singularly comprehensive and powerful description.
He freed himself at last, and after flinging the garment away in his
anger, picked it up again, and, carrying it under his arm, zigzagged his
way back to the ship.

His memory when he awoke next morning was not quite clear, but a
hazy recollection of having been insulted led him to treat Dick and the
cook with marked coldness, which did not wear off until they were all
busy on deck. Working at cement is a dry job, and, after hardening his
heart for some time, the stout seaman allowed the cook to call him to
the galley and present him with a mug of cold coffee left from the cabin
table.
The 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