Thereupon the old man, who was fully dressed, in a pair of old woollen trousers and a guernsey, slipped from the bed, and began fumbling about the room. He soon found what he wanted--a box of matches and a rude home-made candle, fashioned of a long, coarse reed dipped in sheep’s tallow, but owing to the fact that he was exceedingly feeble and tremulous, he was so long in lighting up that his gentle son grew impatient. “Here, give ’un to me!” said William. “You’re wasting them matches just as if they cost nowt. A precious father _you_ are, and no mistake.” The candle being lit and burning with a feeble flame, he informed the old man of what he had found. In a moment the latter was down on his knees, opening the box, and greedily examining its contents. But William pushed him impatiently away, and closed the lid with a bang. “Theer, enough o’ that, old ’un! You hold the light while I carry the box in and put it away.” “All right, William dear; all right,” returned the old man, obeying gleefully. “I know’d we should have luck, by that beautiful dream.” The two men--one holding the light and the other carrying the trunk--passed through a door at the back of the kitchen and entered an inner chamber. This chamber, too, contained a window, which was so blocked up however by lumber of all kinds that little or no daylight entered. Piled up in great confusion were old sacks, some partly full, some empty, coils of rope, broken oars, broken fragments of ships’ planks, rotten and barnacled, a small boat’s rudder, dirty sails, several oilskin coats, bits of iron ballast, and other flotsam and jetsam; so that the chamber had a salt and fish-like smell, suggesting the hold of some vessel. But in one corner of the room was a small wooden bed, with a mattrass and coarse bed-clothing, and hanging on a nail close to it was certain feminine attire which the owner of the caravan would have recognized as the garb worn by Matt on the morning of her first appearance. Placing the box down, William Jones carefully covered it with a portion of an old sail. “It’s summat, but it ain’t much,” he muttered discontentedly. “Lucky them coastguards didn’t see me come ashore. If they did, though, it wouldn’t signify; for what’s floating on the sea belongs to him as finds it.” A sound startled him as he spoke, and looking round suspiciously he saw Matt entering the room, loaded with broken wood. But she was not alone; standing behind her in the shadow was a man--none other, indeed, than Monk of Monkshurst. While Matt entered the room to throw down her load of wood Monk stood in the doorway. His quick eye had noted the movements of father and son. “More plunder, William Jones?” he asked grimly. In a moment William Jones was transformed. The keen expression of his face changed to one of mingled stupidity and sadness; he began to whine.