CHAPTER II

INTRODUCES THE "PLAYMATE" AND HER SKIPPER

I SUPPOSE I must try and find the _Playmate_," thought Tregarthen. "Perhaps Jack has not received my wire. I hope he hasn't cleared out without waiting for me, though I shouldn't be surprised. It used to be a favourite trick of his not to wait a minute for anyone."

When Tregarthen had reached the quayside he found that the whole length of the spacious wharf was lined with a double row of coasting brigs, schooners, lighters, and the ubiquitous Rochester barges. On the Hamworthy side the feeble glimmer of the quay lights faintly illuminated the white hulls of a few yachts, but the sub-lieutenant knew that they were of too great a tonnage to correspond with his ideas of the _Playmate_.

Where, then, in all that jumble of floating craft, was Stockton's yacht to be found?

Gerald Tregarthen was at a loss. Beyond a few half intoxicated seamen lurching back to their vessels the quay was deserted. He was on the point of making for the nearest hotel when a voice came apparently from beneath his feet.

"Ferry, sir?"

The young officer looked down. Close to where he stood a flight of stone steps led to the water's edge. It was nearly low tide, and the steps looked particularly uninviting in the dim reflection from the oily water. At the foot of the landing, with barely a couple of inches to spare betwixt the cutwater of a brig and the ponderous rudder of a Thames barge, was a boat, its occupant holding on to a ringbolt in the stonework by means of a short boat-hook.

"Ferry, sir?"

"Do you know of a yacht--a cutter called the _Playmate_?" asked Tregarthen.

"Can't say as 'ow I does, sir," replied the ferry-man. "But I'll call my mate; maybe he'll know." And placing his hands trumpet-wise to his mouth he shouted: "Buck-up! Buck-up Cartridge, where be ye?"

The echo of the man's powerful voice had barely died away when a hail came from the opposite shore. "Hulloa, there?" immediately followed by the faint splash of oars.

"Old Buck-up'll know if there be any craft o' that name," remarked the ferry-man, and as the new comer's boat rubbed its nose against the quarter of the ferry-boat the query was anxiously repeated.

"Wot, _Playmate_, owned by a gent o' the name o' Stockton? Why, sure I do. She's lying off the Stakes."

"Can you put me aboard?" asked Tregarthen, a load removed from his mind at the assurance that his chum had not set sail.

"Certainly, sir," replied Cartridge; and, handing his portmanteau to the ferry-man, who in turn passed it on to the second water-man, Tregarthen stepped across the first craft into the second.

With long, easy strokes the boat glided with the still strong ebb past the line of shipping and into the staked channel. Here, being comparatively open, the N.W. wind blew fresh, and the young officer shivered in spite of his experience on the bridge of a destroyer. He missed the thick pilot-coat, and the comforting shelter of the storm-dodgers.

Between long, low banks of reeking mud the boat passed, till at length, a good quarter of a mile from the quay, appeared the dim outlines of half a dozen yachts of all sizes, their anchor-lights gleaming fitfully upon the dew-sodden decks and mainsail covers, and casting broken shafts of light upon the ruffled water.

"There be the _Playmate_, sir," exclaimed the waterman, resting on his oars and looking over his shoulder. Tregarthen followed the direction of his gaze.

Twenty yards away lay a smart little white cutter. Even in the gloom the sub-lieutenant could distinguish her graceful spoon bow, her short yet becoming quarter, and the businesslike sheer of her sides. Across her boom a canvas awning was lashed over the diminutive cockpit. From the cabin a light flickered upon the awning, and gleamed cheerfully through the fluted glass skylight. To Tregarthen the vision of that light seemed an indescribable comfort. The tedious journey, the disappointment of Stockton's non-appearance, the cheerless welcome of the bleak and desolate harbour--all were forgotten. He had found a haven of rest.

"_Playmate_, ahoy!"

The waterman jerked one oar into his boat and with the other skilfully checked her way till she gently rubbed sides with the yacht.

"Hallo, there! Is that you, Cartridge?"

"Yes, sir; I've brought a gent off to see you."

There was the sound of a hasty scuffling, the awning was partially unlaced, and a hand holding a lantern appeared, followed by the head and shoulders of the owner of the cutter _Playmate_.

The rays of the lamp fell upon the features of the owner. He had a somewhat long, thin face, with a characteristically square jaw, and light eyebrows that formed an almost continuous line across his brows.

"Hallo, you!" he exclaimed, as the identity of his visitor was revealed. "I'd given you up."

"So it appears," replied Tregarthen. "Didn't you get my wire?"

"Wire--what wire? But don't stay there; come aboard. You'd better use the fore-hatch, unlacing this awning is a blessed nuisance."

Stockton's head vanished as its owner retreated into the cabin. Tregarthen, having paid the boatman, seized the main shrouds and swung himself lightly on deck. Then making his way for'ard he removed the partially open hatchway leading to the fo'c'sle.

"Hold on! Hold on a minute!" shouted Jack. "You're putting your foot into the soup!"

Checking his downward progress just in time, Gerald waited till the skipper, and cook combined, removed a saucepan from the top of a roaring Primus stove, pushed the stove out of the way, and gave the word that all was clear.

The next instant Tregarthen found himself in the fo'c'sle.

It was a small, wedge-shaped apartment, barely 4ft. in height and 7ft. wide at its broadest part, tapering away to less than 6ins. for'ard. This limited space was still further curtailed by a number of lockers and cupboards, the stove, a bundle of sails and warps, and the still weed-covered chain cable. Jack Stockton, pipe in mouth, and huddled up on an upturned bucket, was busily engaged in preparing some flat-fish, that he had just caught, for supper.

Gerald began to cough. What with the heat of the stove, the tobacco smoke, the combined odours of the fish, the soup, and the seaweed, to say nothing of the smoky paraffin lamp, made the confined quarters well-nigh unbearable. It was infinitely worse than the fo'c'sle of a destroyer in a heavy seaway, yet Stockton endured it with equanimity--even with pleasure. It was one of the joys of yachting in the rough.

"Excuse the mess!" he exclaimed. "You see, I didn't expect you after the arrival of the train you agreed upon. But I'll have everything shipshape in a jiffy. Where's your gear?"

"On deck."

"Then bring it below. You may as well get into the cabin, and I'll be with you soon. Mind your head!"

The warning came too late. Tregarthen forgot that the cabin of a 4-ton yacht is a mere dog-kennel compared with the diminutive wardroom of _H.M.S. Calder_, but luckily his thick cap saved his skull from a nasty blow from a deck beam.

Then with a thud his portmanteau was deposited on the floor of the fo'c'sle, and Stockton's voice was heard: "Here, bear a hand, and get this thing into the cabin."

Gerald hastened to give the requested assistance. This time the small of his arched back came into violent contact with the top of the doorway communicating with the fo'c'sle. Thereupon, acting with more discretion, he slowly dragged his belongings into the cabin, and sat down upon one of the sofa-bunks.

By degrees he recovered his ruffled composure, and took a careful survey of his limited surroundings. A glance in a bevelled mirror revealed the fact that his encounter with the deck-beam had had the effect of crumpling his collar into a series of longitudinal creases.

"It's time I put a sweater on," he thought, and opening his portmanteau he produced one of those thick, serviceable articles, and measuring the distance between his head and the deck-beams--a margin of barely 6ins.--Tregarthen removed his collar and plunged into his sweater. This done his sense of comfort was materially increased.

"Now what do you propose doing?" he asked, as the crew of the _Playmate_ tackled a hearty supper. "Going west?"

"I thought of making a dash across the Channel. Any objection?"

Tregarthen whistled.

"Bit risky, isn't it?"

"I don't think so. This packet is as stiff as a house; the gear's sound, and all the stores are aboard."

"You've a compass, of course?"

"A little beauty."

"Then I'm game. By the bye, have you seen to-day's paper?"

"No; I went ashore, but quite forgot to get one. Why--anything startling?"

"Only this," replied Gerald, producing the newspapers he had purchased on the journey, and pointing to the _Zietan_ paragraph. "What do you think of it?"

"Not much," replied Jack, in a matter-of-fact tone. "At any rate, I don't suppose it will affect us."

"When do you propose to make a start?" Stockton did not immediately reply, but, gaining the cockpit, he unlaced a portion of the awning.

"Now if you like," he replied. "The young flood has set in, though, but with the wind in this quarter we can stem it and pick up the east-going tide outside. Just hand me down that bundle of charts."

Gerald did so, and his chum picked out one of the English Channel.

"We ought to make St. Catherine's before daybreak," continued Jack "And then with a decent slice of luck we can make a slant across and pick up Cape Barfleur before sunset. It's barely fifty miles as the crow flies. So we'll get under way now, and when we are outside the harbour you can turn in. I had a good spell below during the day, so a night's watch won't trouble me."

"All right; I'm game," repeated Tregarthen. Twenty minutes later the _Playmate_ was heeling over to the steady breeze. Her voyage, that was fated to be the forerunner of a wealth of peculiar adventures, had begun.