“Eh?” said Mrs. Tipping, putting her cards face downwards on the table and catching his eye. “Where?” “O, nowhere,” said Fraser, awkwardly. “I don’t want to be dragged into this, you know. It isn’t my business.” “If you know where he is, why can’t you tell us?” asked Mrs. Tipping, softly. “There’s no harm in that.” “What’s the good?” enquired Fraser, in a low voice; “when you’ve seen the old man you won’t be any forwarder—he wouldn’t tell you anything even if he knew it.” “Well, we’d like to see him,” said Mrs. Tipping, after a pause. “You see, you put me in a difficulty,” said Fraser; “if the skipper doesn’t come aboard, you’re going with us, I understand?” Mrs. Tipping nodded. “Exactly,” she said, sharply. “That’ll get me into trouble, if anything will,” said the mate, gloomily. “On the other hand, if I tell you where he is now, that’ll get me into trouble, too.” He sat back and drummed on the table with his fingers. “Well, I’ll risk it,” he said, at length; “you’ll find him at 17, Beaufort Street, Bow.” The younger woman sprang excitedly to her feet, but Mrs. Tipping, eyeing the young man with a pair of shrewd, small eyes, kept her seat. “And while we’re going, how do we know the capt’n won’t come back and go off with the ship?” she enquired. Fraser hesitated. “Well, I’ll come with you, if you like,” he said, slowly. “And suppose they go away and leave you, behind?” objected Mrs. Tipping. “Oh, well, you’d better stay then,” said the mate, wearily, “unless we take a couple of the hands with us. How would that suit you? They can’t sail with half a crew.” Mrs. Tipping, who was by no means as anxious for a sea voyage as she tried to make out, carefully pondered the situation. “I’m going to take an arm of each of ’em and Matilda’ll take yours,” she said, at length. “As you please,” said Fraser, and in this way the procession actually started up the wharf, and looking back indignantly over its shoulder saw the watchman and Ben giving way to the most unseemly mirth, while the cook capered joyously behind them. A belated cab was passing the gate as they reached it, and in response to the mate’s hail pulled sharply up. Mrs. Tipping, pushing her captives in first, stepped heavily into the cab followed by her daughter, while the mate, after a brief discussion, clambered onto the box. “Go on,” he said, nodding. “Wot, ain’t the rest of you comin’?” enquired the cabman, eyeing the crowd at the gate, in pained surprise. “No. 17, Beaufort Street, Bow,” said Mrs. Tipping, distinctly, as she put her head out of the window. “You could sit on ’er lap,” continued the cabman, appealingly.