happened before, and I turned into the barge-builder's. The proprietor
there faced me silently for a moment, treasuring a jest he was going to
give me when I was sufficiently impatient for it. "Come to see whether
your boots are done? Well, they ain't. Pascoe's gone. Christened his
boat this morning, and pushed off. Gone for a trial trip. Gone down
river."

"Good Lord," I said, or something of the sort.

"Yes," continued the barge-builder, luxuriating in it, "and I've often
wondered what name he'd give her, and he done it this morning, in gold
leaf. D'yer remember what she looked like? All right. Well, 'er name
is the _Heart's Desire_, and her skipper will be back soon, if she
don't fall apart too far off."

Her skipper was not back soon, nor that day. We had no news of him the
next day. A few women were in his workshop, when I called, hunting
about for footwear that should have been repaired and returned, but was
not. "'Ere they are," cried one. "'Ere's young Bill's boots, and
nothing done to 'em. The silly old fool. Why didn't 'e tell me 'e was
going to sea? 'Ow's young Bill to go to school on Monday now?" The
others found their boots, all urgently wanted, and all as they were
when Pascoe got them. A commination began of light-minded cripples who
took in young and innocent boots, promising them all things, and then
treacherously abandoned them, to do God knew what; and so I left.

This became serious; for old Pascoe, with his _Heart's Desire_, had
vanished, like his Toltecs. A week went by. The barge-builder, for
whom this had now ceased to be a joke, was vastly troubled by the
complete disappearance of his neighbour, and shook his head over it.