The young officer looked down. Close to where he stood a flight of stone steps led to the water's edge. It was nearly low tide, and the steps looked particularly uninviting in the dim reflection from the oily water. At the foot of the landing, with barely a couple of inches to spare betwixt the cutwater of a brig and the ponderous rudder of a Thames barge, was a boat, its occupant holding on to a ringbolt in the stonework by means of a short boat-hook. "Ferry, sir?" "Do you know of a yacht--a cutter called the _Playmate_?" asked Tregarthen. "Can't say as 'ow I does, sir," replied the ferry-man. "But I'll call my mate; maybe he'll know." And placing his hands trumpet-wise to his mouth he shouted: "Buck-up! Buck-up Cartridge, where be ye?" The echo of the man's powerful voice had barely died away when a hail came from the opposite shore. "Hulloa, there?" immediately followed by the faint splash of oars. "Old Buck-up'll know if there be any craft o' that name," remarked the ferry-man, and as the new comer's boat rubbed its nose against the quarter of the ferry-boat the query was anxiously repeated. "Wot, _Playmate_, owned by a gent o' the name o' Stockton? Why, sure I do. She's lying off the Stakes." "Can you put me aboard?" asked Tregarthen, a load removed from his mind at the assurance that his chum had not set sail. "Certainly, sir," replied Cartridge; and, handing his portmanteau to the ferry-man, who in turn passed it on to the second water-man, Tregarthen stepped across the first craft into the second. With long, easy strokes the boat glided with the still strong ebb past the line of shipping and into the staked channel. Here, being comparatively open, the N.W. wind blew fresh, and the young officer shivered in spite of his experience on the bridge of a destroyer. He missed the thick pilot-coat, and the comforting shelter of the storm-dodgers. Between long, low banks of reeking mud the boat passed, till at length, a good quarter of a mile from the quay, appeared the dim outlines of half a dozen yachts of all sizes, their anchor-lights gleaming fitfully upon the dew-sodden decks and mainsail covers, and casting broken shafts of light upon the ruffled water. "There be the _Playmate_, sir," exclaimed the waterman, resting on his oars and looking over his shoulder. Tregarthen followed the direction of his gaze. Twenty yards away lay a smart little white cutter. Even in the gloom the sub-lieutenant could distinguish her graceful spoon bow, her short yet becoming quarter, and the businesslike sheer of her sides. Across her boom a canvas awning was lashed over the diminutive cockpit. From the cabin a light flickered upon the awning, and gleamed cheerfully through the fluted glass skylight. To Tregarthen the vision of that light seemed an indescribable comfort. The tedious journey, the disappointment of Stockton's non-appearance, the cheerless welcome of the bleak and desolate harbour--all were forgotten. He had found a haven of rest.