Thus adjured, Sam balanced himself on the edge of the quay, and executing a double shuffle on the very brink of it by way of showing his complete mastery over his feet, fell into the rigging and descended. He was followed by Dick and the cook, both drunk, and both preternaturally solemn. “Get below,” said the skipper sharply. “Ay, ay, sir,” said Dick, with a lurch. “Come on, Sam, we—ain’t wanted—here.” “It’s all your damned dancing, Sam!” said the cook—who had ever an eye for beauty—plaintively. “Will you get below?” roared the maddened skipper, giving him a push. “I’m very sorry,” he said, turning to Annis as they disappeared; “everything seems to be going wrong to-night.” “It doesn’t matter,” she said coldly. “Goodnight.” “Where are you going?” asked Wilson. “Going to find a hotel,” said Annis; “there’s no train back to-night.” “Take the cabin,” he said entreatingly, “I and the mate’ll sleep for’ard.” “No, thank you,” said Annis. She stepped to the side, and, assisted by the skipper, clambered up on to the quay again. The mate came up at the moment and stood eyeing her curiously. “This is Miss Gething,” said the skipper slowly. “Any news?” “None,” said the mate solemnly; “they’ve vanished like smoke.” “Is it certain,” asked Annis, addressing, him, “that it was my father?” The mate looked at the skipper and pushed his cap back. “We had no reason to think otherwise,” he said shortly. “It’s a mystery to me altogether. He can’t have gone home by train because he had no money.” “It couldn’t have been my father,” said Annis slowly. “Somebody has been deceiving you. Good-night. I will come round in the morning; it is getting late.” “Where are you going?” inquired the mate. “She’s going to look for a hotel,” said the skipper, answering for her. “It’s late,” said the mate dubiously, “and this isn’t much of a place for hotels. Why not take her to the woman where her father has been staying? You said she seemed a decent sort.” “It’s a poor place,” began the other. “That’ll do,” said Annis decidedly; “if it was good enough for my father it is good enough for me. If it wasn’t my father I may learn something about him. Is it far?” “Two miles,” said the mate. “We’d better start at once, then,” said the skipper, moving a step or two by way of example. “And perhaps you’ll walk down too,” said Annis to the mate. It went to the mate’s heart to do it, but he was a staunch friend. “No, I think I’ll turn in,” he said, blushing at his rudeness; “I’m tired.” He lifted his cap awkwardly and descended. Annis, with her head at an uncomfortable altitude, set off with the skipper. “I’m sorry the mate wouldn’t come,” said the latter stiffly.