The same general stores too, but more often the farm houses, had supplied him with food. Few questions had been asked him—the money in his pocket had proved a passport that had made his way one of almost ridiculous ease. Yet still he had preserved always the utmost caution, hiding by day, travelling never but by night, making wide detours to avoid the larger towns and more thickly settled districts.
And so the journey had been made—and now, very early one morning, two weeks since his escape, he came out upon a road close to the beach on the outskirts of Gloucester. He stood for a while gazing at the blue sweep of sea; then his eyes fell contemplatively upon his more immediate surroundings.
Near him was a small shack built almost on the sand itself; a dory was pulled up beyond the tide line; and spread out on the beach was a black, tarred net, over which a twisted little old man was assiduously engaged. The man's back was turned, and Varge watched him for a moment speculatively. He had little idea where the fishing fleet was to be found; nor, indeed, in an intimate way, anything about it. In common with every one, he had heard of the Gloucester fishermen—but that was the extent of his knowledge. Inquiries he would have to make, and this appealed to him as a favourable opportunity—he had no wish to be in evidence in the city itself any more than was absolutely necessary.
His mind made up to accost the old fisherman, Varge stepped quickly across the sand.
"Good-morning," he said pleasantly, halting a yard from the other.
The back of the black jersey, darned here and there
