He stood in an easy attitude waiting for an answer and gazed in clumsy surprise at Dick, as that arch-deceiver stamped his way down below in a fury. He even went so far as to pretend that Dick had gone down for the flag in question, and gingerly putting his head down the scuttle, said that a pair of bathing drawers would do if it was not forthcoming—a piece of pleasantry which he would willingly have withdrawn when the time came for him to meet Dick at dinner. By the time they reached Northfleet again all interest in the search had practically ceased. For one thing it was an unpleasant thing for grown men to be exposed to the gibes of Henry, and for another, looking at it in the cold clear light of reason, they could but see that there was very little prospect of success. In the cabin pessimism was also to the front with the mate as its mouthpiece. “It’s against all reason,” he said, after arguing the matter a little. “You can’t expect to find him. Now take my advice, you’re doing better with a safe trade between here and Brittlesea—stick to that.” “I won’t,” said the other doggedly. “It’s hard on ’em,” said the mate—“the old men I mean—chevying ’em and hunting ’em about just because they’ve got gray whiskers and are getting into years. Besides which, some of the crew ’ll get into a mess sooner or later.” “Talk as much as you like you won’t affect me,” retorted the other, who was carrying on the conversation as he was down below washing. “There you go again,” said the mate, “making yourself look nice. What for? Another fellow’s girl. Turn it and twist it as much as you please, that’s what it comes to.” “When I want your advice,” said the skipper, covering his confusion by a vigorous use of the towel, “I’ll ask for it.” He finished dressing in silence and went ashore, and after looking about him in a perfunctory fashion, strolled off in the direction of Gravesend. The one gleam of light in his present condition was the regular habits of schools, and as he went along he blessed the strong sense of punctuality which possessed the teaching body at four o’clock. To-day, however, his congratulations were somewhat premature, for long after the children had come and gone there was no sign of Annis Gething. He walked up and down the road wondering. Half-past four, five. He waited until six o’clock—an object of much interest to sundry ladies who were eyeing him stealthily from their front parlor windows—and was just going at a quarter-past when he saw her coming towards him. “Back again,” she said as she shook hands. “Just back,” said he. “No news of my father, I suppose?” said Annis. “None, I’m sorry to say,” said the skipper. “You’re late to-night, aren’t you?” “Rather.” “You look tired,” said the skipper with tenderness. “Well, I’m not,” said Annis. “I just stayed and had a cup of tea with Miss Grattan. Mother has gone out, so I didn’t hurry.” “Out now?” inquired he.