Somewhere out yonder Captain Coffin was waiting in his shore-boat.
I listened, minute after minute, on the chance of hearing his hail.
A heavy bank of cloud had overcast the moon, and the packet melted
from sight in a blur of darkness. Worst of all--worse even than the
sting of self-reproach--was the prospect of returning to Stimcoe's
and wearing through the night, while out there in the darkness the
two men would meet, and all that followed their meeting must happen
unseen by me.
This ordeal appeared so dreadful to me in prospect that I began to
cast about among all manner of impracticable plans for escaping it.
Of these the most promising--although I had no money--was to give the
Stimcoes leg-bail and run home; the most alluring, too, since it
offered to deaden the torment of uncertainty by keeping me employed,
mind and body. I must follow the coach-road. In imagination I
measured back the distance. If George Goodfellow walked to Plymouth
and back once a week, why might not I succeed in walking to Minden
Cottage? Home was home. I should get counsel and comfort there;
counsel from my father and comfort most assuredly from Plinny.
I needed both, and in Falmouth just now there was none of either.
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