Stimcoe preferred to term it, "names-calling"--as best I might.
Thereupon I did an incredibly foolish thing, which, as it proved,
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.
Pages:
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83