"Oons! ’tis sinful to tear a poor mortal man’s heart out, ’tis so. Here be I, a-chasen a villanous creature, the _Merry Maid_ by name, thinken as Master Harry were a forsaken prisoner aboard on her, and ’tis all much ado about nothen, and he a-laughen in his sleeve along o’ your cargo! I wouldn’ ha’ thowt it, not I. Where be the deceiven trickster?" "Asleep," said Grootz, with a puff of smoke. "Flotsam!" He chuckled and guffawed; it was a joke that would last his lifetime. "What your meanen may be I don’t know, Mynheer; but ’tis me as ought to be sleepen. No sleep ha’ I had, not a wink, since Master Harry played this trick on me; ay, ’twas sinful. And I’ll punch Ralph Aglionby’s costard, I will so, first chance I gets." "Tell me about it," said Grootz. Sherebiah related how, on returning to his inn with the money for which he had pledged Harry’s trinkets, he was surprised to find his young master absent. As time passed on, and he did not make his appearance, Sherebiah became thoroughly alarmed. About seven o’clock in the evening he hurried off to Southwark, and enquired of the porter at the White Hart whether Captain Aglionby was within. The captain had left a week before, said the porter, in company with a tall, bent, shabby old gentleman. Sherebiah’s worst fears were realized. For weeks he had expected the stroke, and now it had fallen suddenly, and at a time when he was not at hand to parry it. He hastened at once to the house in which, as he had made it his business to know, Mr. Berkeley was staying. Neither the squire nor Captain Aglionby was at home. Sherebiah thereupon took his station at a convenient spot near the house whence he could see without being seen, and some time after midnight was rewarded. The two men he sought returned together. Allowing a little time to elapse, he went to the house and asked to see Captain Aglionby, giving the servant a vague message which he believed would bring the captain to the door. Instead of him, however, Mr. Berkeley himself appeared. To Sherebiah’s question as to what had become of Harry, the squire replied coldly that he knew nothing about him, and shut the door in his questioner’s face. "Ay, I were a fool to ask un," admitted Sherebiah ruefully. "I had ought to ha’ thowt o’ poor old feyther o’ mine."