"Only a rascal with no good to talk about would have chosen such a place!" he could not but think, as he went out from the cabin. The Old Province was progressing very cautiously. The opaque fog was like wool around her, although straight up overhead the moon seemed struggling to show herself in a circle of wan light. The ocean's swell was much less and the drizzle over. But the night bade fair to stay very thick and to give place to a morning like it. Coming from the lighted cabin, Philip stumbled about over the slippery deck. He caught the sound of a repeated whistle rising, falling, and trifling artistically, that was plainly intended as his guide. "Mr. Hilliard" rose from where he had been lounging along the wet rail.
"Ah," said he, "you're here, are you, Touchtone? There seem to be some dry chairs on this heap. Looks as if it was going to stay muggy, don't it?"
"I'd like to know your business with me as soon as I can," replied Philip, determined to waste no time, and declining the proffered seat. "I'm not here for my own pleasure, nor because you've frightened me into coming
