The youth who had come ashore paused for a moment, tightening his sword-belt, and as he did so he glanced aside at the old man.
"Art going back to the ship, Jacob?" he inquired with seeming carelessness, yet with a look of strange eagerness in his dark eyes as if much depended upon the veteran's answer.
The graybeard slowly shook his head, and the deep-drawn sigh that issued from his lips seemed to Gilbert Oglander to betoken a whole world of past troubles and present gratitude.
"Wherefore should I go back, Master Philip?" said he in a husky voice. "Have I not had enough of the pestilent old hulk, think you? I have done all that was needed of me, I trow; and since, as you well know, I did but engage to work my passage home, there be no wages due to me and we are quits. As to my worldly belongings," he added with a hollow, uneasy laugh as he rested his bony hand upon the leathern bag that hung at his side, "this wallet containeth all my chattels and goods. Ay, all that I am worth in the world. And little enough, you'll be saying, as the sole outcome of all my perils and wanderings. Howbeit," he went on, not heeding that the young man had already passed beyond hearing and was continuing his way up the slip, "there's but small use in complaining. And after all, God hath been truly merciful in that He hath brought me safely back to my dear native land. Sure 'tis worth all my twenty-three years of voyaging to be back once more in Plymouth town and to again set foot on English ground!"
"GOD HATH BEEN TRULY MERCIFUL IN THAT HE HATH BROUGHT ME SAFELY BACK"
A gust of cold wind blew round one of the stone piers of the wharf near which he lingered. He shivered slightly, and drew his ragged canvas shirt closer about his bare chest and neck. Then his moist blue eyes surveyed the group of men who now stood apart watching the boat returning to the ship.
"I don't see none o' my old friends among you, my masters," said he, looking from one to the other. "You'm all strangers to me. And peradventure I am as great a stranger to yourselves. But the time hath been when I was as well known in Plymouth as the tower of St. Andrew's church yonder." A forced, unnatural smile flitted about the parched blue lips as he added, addressing no one in particular: "Jacob Hartop is my name—Jacob Hartop that went out with John Hawkins in the year 1567, and that hath now comehome after three-and-twenty years of foreign travel and fighting and slavish toil."
He held out his hand to grasp that of one of the older men who stood near. As he did so Timothy Trollope noticed that his wrist bore an indented mark upon it, as if it had been too tightly clasped by a bracelet. Several of the bystanders now shook hands with him.
"Thou'rt welcome home, friend Hartop," said one.
"God give you peace and joy, my master!" said another.
"And may you never need to wander from England's shores again!" said a third.
Captain Whiddon then stepped forward, and said he:
"Be you related to young George Hartop that fell in the great fight against the Invincible Armada of Spain?"
Jacob Hartop stared blankly before him. It was evident that he knew naught of the great fight referred to. He was about to answer when the touch of a hand on his thin bare arm caused him to turn suddenly round, and he stood face to face with Gilbert Oglander.
"Thou'rt thinly clad, and the wind blows cold," said Gilbert as he took off his cloak and spread it over the ancient traveller's shoulder. "I pray you take this cloak."
The old man drew back.
"Nay, I can take no such goodly gift from one who doth owe me no manner of kindness," he declared, attempting to remove the garment. "Believe me, I am not so cold but that a walk and a flagon of ale will warm me." But seeing that the offer was seriously meant he relented, and, fixing his tearful eyes upon Gilbert, he said: "Now, prithee, my gallant young sir, what might be your honour's name? Tell me, so that I may bear it in memory, and think of you with the gratitude that I do truly feel."
Gilbert Oglander made a light pretence of not having heard the question, and, followed by Timothy, he strode gaily up to the head of the slip.
The tall man with the scar on his cheek was at this moment crossing the muddy roadway with his two companions towards a house with heavy overhanging gables, that stood at the corner of one of the alleys. It was a tavern, as could be known by the fact that the window lattices were painted red, and it bore the sign of the Three Flagons. The stranger had to bend down his head as he entered the low porchway.
"Truly a man may be known by the hostelry he chooseth," remarked Timothy Trollope as he saw the woman's skirts disappear behind the door-post. "I had thought by their favour that these people were of high station and good breeding, and that by their great haste to quit their ship they were intent upon travelling yet farther into the country, haply to some famous old estate. But 'tis plain to see that they do intend to abide at the humble Three Flagons. 'Tis a cheap inn and an ill-managed. Nevertheless, I should engage that they will have better comfort withal than on board the cranky old Pearl. Think you that the man with the wounded cheek is her captain?"
Gilbert shrugged his shoulders.
"A ship's master would scarcely be the first to quit her on coming into port," said he; "although, indeed, it may well be that the man's gallantry hath brought him ashore thus speedily in his wish to place the woman and her son in decent lodgings."
"And, prithee, wherefore do you so readily make up your mind that the lad is her son?" inquired Timothy.
"For the simple and plain reason that her eyes and his have got the self-same foreign look in them," answered Gilbert. "But wherefore should we discuss these people? Foreigners as they are, they can be of no earthly interest to us, now or hereafter. As to the ship, well, had we but gone aboard of her we might have learned something of more value touching the adventures she hath gone through; but as the matter stands, Tim, we have but wasted a good half-hour of time, and shall not now be home until after dark."
CHAPTER IV.
AT THE SIGN OF THE PESTLE AND MORTAR.
ON the afternoon upon which the good ship Pearl dropped anchor in Sutton Pool, Peter Trollope was less busy than it was his wont to be at that time of day. His one customer since noon had been a poor farrier's apprentice, who had come in to have an aching tooth pulled out—an operation which had occupied the barber-surgeon scarcely a minute, and earned for him the total sum of twopence. But he had seen the ship enter the harbour, and knew well that sooner or later some of her crew would pay him a visit. In the meantime he engaged himself with two large, wild-looking birds, which he kept imprisoned in a dark box on a shelf near the window. He had just been feeding them with raw meat and was closing the lid of the box, when the shop-door was flung open and his son Timothy strode within, making a great clatter with his sword as he dragged the weapon behind him along the stone floor.
Tim threw his cap upon the oak settle at the farther end of the room, seated himself in an easy chair before the fire, and stretched out his legs at full length in front of him with all the freedom of a full-grown man. The bull-dog, which had been asleep in one of the warm corners of the ingle, crept out yawning and wagging his stump of a tail by way of greeting.
"So thou hast at last thought fit to come in and see if we be all alive still?" said Peter in an agrieved tone, as he regarded his stalwart son. "Thou'rt a dutiful son to thy poor