“He’s no lazy, sir,” he said. “That’s not the right word. But he’s come into money some way or other, Job Rowsell has. There’s none of us knows how, and it ain’t our business, but he spends most of his time in the public-house and he seems to have taken a fancy for night sailing alone, which to my mind, and there are others of us as say the same, ain’t none too healthy an occupation. And that’s all there is to be said of Job Rowsell, as I knows of.” “It’s a good deal, too,” Granet remarked thoughtfully. “Where does he live?” “Fourth house on the left in yonder street,” Matthew Nichols replied, pointing with his pipe. “Maybe he’ll come if you send for him, maybe he won’t.” “I must try to keep my word to my friend,” Granet decided. “If I don’t find him, I’ll come back and look for you fellows again.” He turned back to the little writing-room, scribbled a note and sent it down by the boots. In about half an hour he was called once more out into the garden. A huge, loose-jointed man was standing there, unshaven, untidily dressed, and with the look in his eyes of a man who has been drinking heavily. “Are you Job Rowsell?” Granet inquired. “That’s my name,” the man admitted. “Is there anything wrong with it?” “Not that I know of,” Granet replied. “I want you to take me out sailing. Is your boat ready?” The man glanced up at the sky. “I don’t know as I want to go,” he grumbled. “There’s dirty weather about.” “I think you’d better,” Granet urged. “I’m not a bad payer and I can help with the boat. Let’s go and look at her any way.” They walked together down to the harbour. Granet said very little, his companion nothing at all. They stood on the jetty and gazed across to where the sailing boats were anchored. “That’s the Saucy Jane,” Job Rowsell indicated, stretching out a forefinger. Granet scrambled down into a small dinghy which was tied to the side of the stone wall. “We’d better be getting on board,” he suggested. Rowsell stared at him for a moment but acquiesced. They pulled across and boarded the Saucy Jane. A boy whom they found on the deck took the boat back. Rowsell set his sails slowly but with precision. The moment he stepped on board he seemed to become an altered man. “Where might you be wanting to go?” he asked. “You’ll need them oilskins, sure.” “I want to run out to the Bishop Lighthouse,” Granet announced. Rowsell shook his head. “It’s no sort of a day to face the Atlantic, sir,” he declared. “We’ll try a spin round St. Mary and White Island, if you like.” Granet fastened his oilskins and stooped for a moment to alter one of the sails. “Look here,” he said, taking his seat at the tiller, “this is my show, Job Rowsell. There’s a five pound note for you at the end of the day, if you go where I tell you and nowhere else.” The man eyed him sullenly. A few minutes later they were rushing out of the harbour.