His memory when he awoke next morning was not quite clear, but a hazy recollection of having been insulted led him to treat Dick and the cook with marked coldness, which did not wear off until they were all busy on deck. Working at cement is a dry job, and, after hardening his heart for some time, the stout seaman allowed the cook to call him to the galley and present him with a mug of cold coffee left from the cabin table. The cook washed the mug up, and, preferring the dusty deck to the heat of the fire, sat down to wash a bowl of potatoes. It was a task which lent itself to meditation, and his thoughts, as he looked wistfully at the shore, reverted to Captain Gething and the best means of finding him. It was clear that the photograph was an important factor in the search, and, possessed with a new idea, he left the potatoes and went down to the cabin in search of it. He found it on a shelf in the skipper’s state-room, and, passing up on deck again, stepped ashore. From the first three people he spoke to he obtained no information whatever. They all inspected the photograph curiously and indulged in comments, mostly unfavorable, but all agreed that there was nobody like it in Brittlesea. He had almost given it up as a bad job, and was about to return, when he saw an aged fisherman reclining against a post. “Fine day, mate,” said the cook. The old man courteously removed a short clay pipe from his puckered mouth in order to nod, and replacing it, resumed his glance seaward. “Ever seen anybody like that?” inquired the cook, producing the portrait. The old man patiently removed the pipe again, and taking the portrait, scanned it narrowly. “It’s wonderful how they get these things up nowadays,” he said in a quavering voice; “there was nothing like that when you an’ me was boys.” “There ’as been improvements,” admitted the cook indignantly. “All oils they was,” continued the old man meditatively, “or crains.” “’Ave you ever seen anybody like that?” demanded the cook impatiently. “Why, o’ course I have. I’m goin’ to tell you in a minute,” said the old man querulously. “Let me see—what’s his name again?” “I don’t know ’is name,” said the cook untruthfully. “I should know it if I was to hear it,” said the old man slowly. “Ah, I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” He tapped his head triumphantly, and, with a bleared, shining old eye, winked at the cook. “My memory’s as good as ever it was,” he said complacently. “Sometimes I forget things, but they come back. My mother used to be the same, and she lived to ninety-three.” “Lor!” interrupted the anxious cook. “What’s the name?” The old man stopped. “Drat it!” he said, with a worried look, “I’ve lost it again; but it’ll come back.” The cook waited ten minutes for the prodigal. “It ain’t Gething, I s’pose?” he said at length. “No,” said the old man; “don’t you be in a hurry; it’ll come back.” “When?” asked the cook rebelliously.