Now the story-book, when I found it, was not a story-book, but a little thick book of Christian sermons by various good bishops. I read one of them through, to try, but I did not understand it. Then I put the book down with the sudden thought: “This Captain Barlow cannot read. He thinks that these sermons are stories. Now who is it in this ship to whom the letters will be shown? Or can there be no one here? Is he going to steal the letters to submit them to somebody ashore?” I was pretty sure that there was somebody shut up in the ship who was concerned in the theft with Barlow. I cannot tell what made me so sure. I had deceived the captain so easily that I despised him. I did not give him credit for any intelligence whatsoever. Perhaps that was the reason. Then it came over me with a cold wave of dismay that perhaps the woman Aurelia was on board, hidden somewhere, but active for mischief. I remembered that scrap of conversation from the inn-balcony. I wondered if that secret mission mentioned then was to concern me in any way. What was it, I wondered, that was put into her pocket by her father as she stood crying there, just above me? If she were on board, then I must indeed look to myself, for she was probably too cunning a creature to be deceived by my forgeries. The very thought of having her in the ship with me was uncomfortable. I felt that I must find some more subtle hiding-place for my letters than I had found hitherto. I may have idealized the woman, in my alarm, into a miracle of shrewdness. At any rate I knew that she would be a much more dangerous opponent than Captain Barlow, the jocular donkey who allowed himself to be fooled by a schoolboy who was in his power. I knew, too, that she would probably search me other letters, whether my ciphered blinds deceived her or not. She was not one so easily satisfied as a merchant skipper; besides, she had now two scores against me, as well as excellent reason to think me a sharp young man. Presently, after half an hour's absence, the captain came back with the satchel, evidently very pleased with himself. He seemed to find pleasure in the sight of my pretended distress. “Why,” he said, with a grin; “you've not eaten your orange.” “No, sir,” I said, “I'm not very hungry just after breakfast.” “Why, then,” he answered, “you must keep it for your dinner. Look how nice I've mended your strap for you.” “Thank you very much, sir,” I said. “But thought that you were going to do it here. You were going to teach me how to do it.” “Well, it's done now, isn't it?” he replied. “It's done pretty good, too. I'll teach you how to sew some other time. I suppose they don't learn you that, where you go to school?” “No, sir,” I said, “they don't.” “Ah,” he said, picking up the book. “You're a great one for your book, I see. There's very good reading in a book like that.” “Yes,” I said, looking at the mended strap. “There is. How very neatly you've mended the strap, sir. Thank you very much.”