The Skippers Wooing | Page 9

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.
"Taking a country walk?" he inquired.
The cook nodded. "Not all pleasure," he said importantly; "I'm on
business."
"Ah, it's you fellows what make all the money," said the landlord. "I've
only drawn these two pints this morning. Going far?"
"Holebourne," said the other.
"Know anybody there?" asked the landlord.
"Well, not exactly," said the cook; "I carn't say as I know 'im. I'm after
a party o' the name o' Dunn."
"You won't get much out of him," said the landlady, who had just
joined them. "He's a close un, he is."
The cook closed his eyes and smiled knowingly.
"There's a mystery about that man," said the landlady. "Nobody knows
who he is or what he is, and he won't tell 'em. When a man's like that
you generally know there's something wrong--leastways I do."
"Insulting, he is," said the landlord.
"Ah," said the cook, "'e won't insult me!"
"You know something about him?" said the landlady.

"A little," said the cook.
The landlord reached over to his wife, who bent her ear readily and
dutifully towards him, and the cook distinctly caught the whispered
word "'tec."
The landlady, after a curious glance at the cook, withdrew to serve a
couple of wagoners who had drawn up at the door. Conversation
became general, and it was evident that the wagoners shared the
sentiments of the landlord and his wife with regard to Mr. Dunn. They
regarded the cook with awe, and after proffering him a pint with
respectful timidity, offered to give him a lift to Holebourne.
"I'd sooner go on my own," said the cook, with a glance at the wagons;
"I want to get in the place quiet like and 'ave a look round before I do
anythin'."
He sat there for some time resting, and evading as best he could the
skilful questions of the landlady. The wagons moved off first, jolting
and creaking their way to Holebourne, and the cook, after making a
modest luncheon of bread and cheese and smoking a pipe, got on the
road again.
"Look how he walks!" said the landlord, as the couple watched him up
the road.
"Ah!" said his wife.
"Like a bloodhound," said the landlord impressively; "just watch him. I
knew what he was directly I clapped eyes on him."
The cook continued his journey, unconscious of the admiration excited
by his movements. He began to think that he had been a trifle foolish in
talking so freely. Still, he had not said much, and if people liked to
make mistakes, why, that was their business.
In this frame of mind he entered Holebourne, a small village consisting
of a little street, an inn, and a church. At the end of the street, in front of

a tidy little cottage with a well-kept front garden, a small knot of people
were talking.
"Somethin' on," said the cook to himself as he returned with interest the
stares of the villagers. "Which is Mr. Dunn's house, boy?"
"There it is, sir," said the boy, pointing to the house where the people
were standing. "Are you the detective?"
"No," said the cook sharply.
He walked across to the house and opened the little garden gate, quite a
little hum of excitement following him as he walked up to the door