Dan pondered. "Ye cannot get back without us; 'twill be a matter of hard rowing against the wind. I have been thinking. This place is hallowed soil to me, and my feet have not trodden it for thirty years. Bide thou here to-night; I will find thee supper and a pallet. There are many folk with whom I would fain speak now that I am here. Keep a still tongue concerning us: we will speak for ourselves. Tie up thy boat, and ask for John Pengelly. If he be dead, ask for any of his children; they will entertain thee for my sake." Dan took his companion's arm, and climbed the tide-washed bank. He stood for a moment listening and peering into the darkness, then he made for the nearest cottage. The shutter was not closed, and the faint glow of leaping firelight shone through the oiled paper stretched across the bars of the lattice. The sailor turned to the door, and pulled the latch string. "Peace be to you all, friends," he said. "'Tis the voice of a Pengelly that speaks." "Come into the light, Pengelly. Your tongue doth not ring familiarly," came the answer. Dan stepped forward, leaving Nick on the threshold. A young fisherman and his wife sat in the narrow arc of the firelight, and beside them, on a deerskin, their little son basked in the genial warmth. The breeze through the open door fanned the glowing wood into flame. "Close the door, friend," said the fisherman. "I have a comrade on the threshold." "Then bring him in." Nick entered, apologizing for his intrusion, and giving his name, town, and profession as a guarantee of his honesty of purpose. "Ye are welcome both," replied the fisherman. "We have supped, but the wife shall set meat and drink before you." "We are fresh from eating and drinking," said Dan, "and have but looked in for a little chat, seeing that ye were not abed." "Say your say, friends." Dan did so, in his own roundabout fashion. He casually mentioned his voyages to the West, a theme of unfailing interest to any man dwelling on the shores of Plymouth Sound. Then he came to the real reason for his visit. He described the two sailors he had met in Plymouth. The fisherman had never seen them. Dan had guessed as much, but he wanted to be sure. Then he sketched Basil. The fisherman sat upright in a moment. "I know him," he cried. "He has been amongst us, off and on, for more than a month. I'll take you to him." But Dan would not trouble any one to do that. "He knows me well enough," he replied, "and I would rather take him by surprise. We had a jolly time together last Christmas." So the fisherman pointed out where Basil was staying, and his two callers took their leave, promising to look in upon him again in the morning.