Granet emerged from the Tregarten Hotel at St. Mary's on the following morning, about half-past eight, and strolled down the narrow strip of lawn which bordered the village street. A couple of boatmen advanced at once to meet him. Granet greeted them cheerily.
"Yes, I want a boat," he admitted. "I'd like to do a bit of sailing. Afriend of mine was here and had a chap named Rowsell--Job Rowsell. Either of you answer to that name, by chance?"The elder of the two shook his head.
"My name's Matthew Nichols," he announced, "and this is my brother-in-law, Joe Lethbridge. We've both of us got stout sailing craft and all the recommendations a man need have. As for Job Rowsell, well, he ain't here--not just at this moment, so to speak."Granet considered the matter briefly.
"Well," he decided, "it seems to me I must talk to this chap Rowsell before Ido anything. I'm under a sort of promise."
The two boatmen looked at one another. The one who had addressed him first turned a little away.
"Just as you like, sir," he announced. "No doubt Rowsell will be up this way towards afternoon.""Afternoon? But I want to go out at once," Granet protested.
Matthew Nichols removed his pipe from his mouth and spat upon the ground thoughtfully.
"I doubt whether you'll get Job Rowsell to shift before mid-day. I'm none so sure he'll go out at all with this nor-wester blowing.""What's the matter with him?" Granet asked. "Is he lazy?"The man who as yet had scarcely spoken, swung round on his heel.
"He's no lazy, sir," he said. "That's not the right word. But he's come into money some way or other, Job Rowsell has. There's none of us knows how, and it ain't our business, but he spends most of his time in the public-house and he seems to have taken a fancy for night sailing alone, which to my mind, and there are others of us as say the same, ain't none too healthy an occupation.
And that's all there is to be said of Job Rowsell, as I knows of.""It's a good deal, too," Granet remarked thoughtfully. "Where does he live?""Fourth house on the left in yonder street," Matthew Nichols replied, pointing with his pipe. "Maybe he'll come if you send for him, maybe he won't.""I must try to keep my word to my friend," Granet decided. "If I don't find him, I'll come back and look for you fellows again."He turned back to the little writing-room, scribbled a note and sent it down by the boots. In about half an hour he was called once more out into the garden. A huge, loose-jointed man was standing there, unshaven, untidily dressed, and with the look in his eyes of a man who has been drinking heavily.
"Are you Job Rowsell?" Granet inquired.
"That's my name," the man admitted. "Is there anything wrong with it?""Not that I know of," Granet replied. "I want you to take me out sailing. Is your boat ready?"The man glanced up at the sky.
"I don't know as I want to go," he grumbled. "There's dirty weather about.""I think you'd better," Granet urged. "I'm not a bad payer and I can help with the boat. Let's go and look at her any way."They walked together down to the harbour. Granet said very little, his companion nothing at all. They stood on the jetty and gazed across to where the sailing boats were anchored.
"That's the Saucy Jane," Job Rowsell indicated, stretching out a forefinger.
Granet scrambled down into a small dinghy which was tied to the side of the stone wall.
"We'd better be getting on board," he suggested.
Rowsell stared at him for a moment but acquiesced. They pulled across and boarded the Saucy Jane. A boy whom they found on the deck took the boat back.
Rowsell set his sails slowly but with precision. The moment he stepped on board he seemed to become an altered man.
"Where might you be wanting to go?" he asked. "You'll need them oilskins, sure.""I want to run out to the Bishop Lighthouse," Granet announced.
Rowsell shook his head.
It's no sort of a day to face the Atlantic, sir," he declared. "We'll try a spin round St. Mary and White Island, if you like."Granet fastened his oilskins and stooped for a moment to alter one of the sails.
"Look here," he said, taking his seat at the tiller, "this is my show, Job Rowsell. There's a five pound note for you at the end of the day, if you go where I tell you and nowhere else."The man eyed him sullenly. A few minutes later they were rushing out of the harbour.
"It's a poor job, sailing a pleasure boat," he muttered. "Not many of us as wouldn't sell his soul for five pounds."They reached St. Agnes before they came round on the first tack. Then, with the spray beating in their faces, they swung around and made for the opening between the two islands. For a time the business of sailing kept them both occupied. In two hours' time they were standing out towards Bishop Lighthouse. Job Rowsell took a long breath and filled a pipe with tobacco.
He was looking more himself now.
