He went below again, leaving the mate at the wheel. A murmur of voices came from the forecastle, where the crew were discussing the behaviour of their late colleague. The bereaved Master Jones, whose face was streaky with the tears of disappointment, looked on from his bunk. “What are you going to do, Billy?” inquired the cook. “I dunno,” said the boy, miserably. He sat up in his bunk in a brown study, ever and anon turning his sharp little eyes from one to another of the men. Then, with a final sniff to the memory of his departed parent, he composed himself to sleep. With the buoyancy of childhood he had forgotten his trouble by the morning, and ran idly about the ship as before, until in the afternoon they came in sight of Dimport. Mr. Legge, who had a considerable respect for the brain hidden in that small head, pointed it out to him, and with some curiosity waited for his remarks. “I can see it,” said Master Jones, briefly. “That’s where Sam lives,” said his friend, pointedly. “Yes,” said the boy, nodding, “all of you live there, don’t you?” It was an innocent enough remark in all conscience, but there was that in Master Jones’s eye which caused Mr. Legge to move away hastily and glance at him in some disquietude from the other side of the deck. The boy, unconscious of the interest excited by his movements, walked restlessly up and down. “Boy’s worried,” said the skipper, aside, to the mate; “cheer up, sonny.” Billy looked up and smiled, and the cloud which had sat on his brow when he thought of the coldblooded desertion of Mr. Brown gave way to an expression of serene content. “Well, what’s he going to do?” inquired the mate, in a low voice. “That needn’t worry us,” said the skipper. “Let things take their course; that’s my motto.” He took the wheel from Harry; the little town came closer; the houses separated and disclosed roads, and the boy discovered to his disappointment that the church stood on ground of its own, and not on the roof of a large red house as he had supposed. He ran forward as they got closer, and, perching up in the bows until they were fast to the quay, looked round searchingly for any signs of Sam. The skipper locked up the cabin, and then calling on one of the shore hands to keep an eye on the forecastle, left it open for the convenience of the small passenger. Harry, Charlie, and the cook stepped ashore. The skipper and mate followed, and the latter, looking back from some distance, called his attention to the desolate little figure sitting on the hatch. “I s’pose he’ll be all right,” said the skipper, uneasily; “there’s food and a bed down the fo’c’s’le. You might just look round to-night and see he’s safe. I expect we’ll have to take him back to London with us.”