defeated all our plans and gave rise to unnumbered woes. I was
already late for names-calling; but for this I cared little.
Stimcoe had not the courage to flog me; the day had been a holiday,
and of a sort to excuse indiscipline; and, anyway, one might as well
suffer for a sheep as for a lamb. The St. Mawes packet would be
lying alongside the Market Strand. The moon was up--a round, full
moon--and directly over St. Mawes, so that her rays fell, as near as
might be, in the line of the cutter's course, which, with a steady
breeze down the harbour, would be a straight one. From the edge of
Market Strand I might be able to spy Captain Coffin's boat as he
boarded. Let me, without extenuating, be brief over my act of folly.
Instead of making at once for Stimcoe's, I bent my steps towards
Market Strand. The St. Mawes packet lay there, and I stood on the
edge of the quay, watching her preparations for casting off--the
skipper clearing the gangway and politely helping aboard, between the
warning notes of his whistle, belated marketers who came running with
their bundles.

While I stood there, a man sauntered out and stood for a moment on
the threshold of the Plume of Feathers. It was the man Aaron Glass,
and, recognizing him, I (that had been standing directly under the
light of the quay-lamp) drew back from the edge into the darkness.
I had done better, perhaps, to stand where I was. How long he had
been observing me--if, indeed, he had observed me--I could not tell.
But, as I drew back, he advanced and strolled nonchalantly past me,
at five yards distance, down to the quay-steps.

"All aboard for St. Mawes!" called the skipper, drawing in his plank.

"All but one, captain!" answered Glass, and, disdaining it, without