There, he peered through the leaves down upon a beautiful vessel.  She lay near the shore; whatever her injury, it seemed to have been repaired by this time for few signs of life were apparent on or about her.  Steam was up; a faint dun-colored smoke swept, pennon-like, from her white funnels.  Some one was inspecting her stern from a platform swung over the rail, and to Mr. Heatherbloom’s strained vision this person’s interest, or concern, centered in the mechanism of her rudder.  The trouble had been there no doubt, and if so, the yacht had probably come, or been brought near the island at high water, and at low tide any damage she might have suffered had been attended to.  Her injury must have been more vexatious than serious.  Would she, as the darky had affirmed, leave when the tide was once more at its full?  Her lying in the outer, instead of in the inner harbor, seemed significant.  Time passed; the person on the platform regained the deck and disappeared.  In the bushes the watcher suddenly started.

Something at one of the port windows had caught his glance.  A ribbon?  A fluttering bit of lace?  A woman’s features that phantom-like had come and vanished?  He looked hard—­so steadily that spots began to dance before his sight, but he could not verify that first impression.  Yet he remained.  The shadows on the furze grew longer, falling in strange angular shapes down the hillside; the sun dipped low.  At length Mr. Heatherbloom, after the manner of one who had made up his mind to something, abruptly rose.

He walked back toward the cove where he had disembarked.  As he drew near the darky caught sight of him, pulled up “anchor” and paddled his boat to the shore.  But Mr. Heatherbloom did not at once get in; his eyes rested on the bushel or so of freshly caught, bubble-blowing crabs.  He strove to appear calm and matter-of-fact.

“What do you expect to get for them?” he asked, pointing.

“’Bout fifty cents de dozen, boss.  Crab market ain’t what it ought ter be jest now.”

“Why don’t you try to sell them to the yacht over there?” Mr. Heatherbloom managed to speak carelessly but it was a difficult task.

“Jest becos she is ‘over there’, boss,” returned the darky lazily.  “Mighty swift tide sweeping around de head of dat island!” he explained.

“And you don’t like rowing against it?” Quickly.  “See here, I’ll tell you what I’ll do.  I like a bit of exercise, and just for the gamble, I’ll give you sixty cents a dozen for the lot, and keep all I can get over that.  The owner of that craft is a Russian and all Russians like sea food.  When they can’t get caviar, they’ll no doubt make a bid for crabs.”

“Dat sounds like berry good argumentation, boss.  Make it seventy”—­avarice struggling on the dusky countenance—­“an’—­”

“Done!” said Mr. Heatherbloom, endeavoring to disguise the fierce eagerness welling within him.  “Here’s on account!” Tossing his last bill to the other.  “And now, get out.  It’ll be easier pulling without you.”