safety. But he was humoured. Hopkins humoured him, even openly
encouraged him. The Heart's Desire was destined for a great adventure.
The world was kept in anticipation of the second departure for this
strange voyage to Guatemala. The _Heart's Desire_ on the edge of a
ship-repairer's yard, was tinkered, patched, refitted, made as right as
she could be. The ship-repairer, the money for the work made certain
for him, did what he was told, but made no comment, except to
interrogate me curiously when I was about.

A spring tide, with a southerly wind, brought us to a natural
conclusion. An unexpected lift of the water washed off the _Heart's
Desire_, rolled her about, and left her broken on the mud. I met the
journalists in a group on their way to the afternoon train, their faces
still reflecting the brightness of an excellent entertainment. Hopkins
took me aside. "I've made it right with old Pascoe. He hasn't lost
anything by it, you can be sure of that." But I was looking for the
cobbler, and all I wished to learn was the place where I was likely to
find him. They did not know that.

Late that evening I was still looking for him, and it had been raining
for hours. The streets of the village were dark and deserted. Passing
one of the many inns, which were the only illumination of the village,
I stumbled over a shadow on the cobbles outside. In the glow of a
match I found Pascoe, drunk, with his necessary stick beside him,
broken.




V. The Master