"Of course I do, comrade--as quick as you like," he answered, with a gay laugh. It was odd that the sight of this structure, made of human hands, should change him in a flash of thought, should make his heart leap in his breast. In a few minutes he was seated in the wherry, half way out across the stream. Already a face was looking over the bulwarks. The hands were on the forecastle, still busy clearing decks after the confusion of letting go anchor and hauling in the jib-boom. Barebone could see them leave off work and turn to look at him. One or two raised a hand in salutation and then turned again to their task. Already the mate--a Farlingford man, who had succeeded Loo--was standing on the rail fingering a coil of rope. "Old man is down below," he said, giving Barebone a hand. From the forecastle came sundry grunts, and half a dozen heads were jerked sideways at him. Captain Clubbe was in the cabin, where the remains of breakfast had been pushed to one end of the table to make room for pens and ink. The Captain was laboriously filling in the countless documents required by the French custom-house. He looked up, pen in hand, and all the wrinkles, graven by years of hardship and trouble, were swept away like writing from a slate. He laid aside his pen and held his hand out across the table. "Had your breakfast?" he asked, curtly, with a glance at the empty coffee-pot. Loo laughed as he sat down. It was all so familiar--the disorder of the cabin; the smell of lamp-oil; the low song of the wind through the rigging, that came humming in at the doorway, which was never closed, night or day, unless the seas were washing to and fro on the main deck. He knew everything so well; the very pen and the rarely used ink-pot; the Captain's attitude, and the British care that he took not to speak with his lips that which was in his heart. "Well," said Captain Clubbe, taking up his pen again, "how are you getting on?" "With what?" "With the business that brought you to this country," answered Clubbe, with a sudden gruffness; for he was, like the majority of big men, shy. Barebone looked at him across the table. "Do you know what the business is that brought me to this country?" he asked. And Captain Clubbe looked thoughtfully at the point of his pen. "Did the Marquis de Gemosac and Dormer Colville tell you everything, or only a little?" "I don't suppose they told me everything," was the reply. "Why should they? I am only a seafaring man." "But they told you enough," persisted Barebone, "for you to draw your own conclusions as to my business over here." "Yes," answered Clubbe, with a glance across the table. "Is it going badly?" "No. On the contrary, it is going splendidly," answered Barebone, gaily; and Captain Clubbe ducked his head down again over the papers of the French custom-house. "It is going splendidly, but--"