All being settled, I wrote to my old acquaintance, Mr. Dewy, asking him to fit the vessel out, and find me a steady skipper and crew—­not without some apprehension of hearing by return of post that Dewy and Moss were ready and willing to sign articles with me to steer and sail the yacht in their spare moments.  Perhaps the idea did not occur to them.  At any rate they found me a crew, and a good one; and I spent a very comfortable three months, cruising along the south-western coast, across to Scilly, from Scilly to Cork and back to Southampton, where on September 29, 1891, I laid the yacht up for the winter.

Thrice since have I applied to Messrs. Dewy and Moss for a crew, and always with satisfactory results.  But I must pass over 1892 and 1893 and come to the summer of 1894; or, to be precise, to Wednesday, the 11th of July.  We had left Plymouth that morning for a run westward; but, the wind falling light towards noon, we found ourselves drifting, or doing little more, off the entrance of the small fishing haven of Penleven.  Though I had never visited Penleven I knew, on the evidence of many picture-shows, that the place was well worth seeing.  Besides, had I not the assurances of the Visitors’ Book in my cabin?  It occurred to me that I would anchor for an hour or two in the entrance of the haven, and eat my lunch ashore at Mr. Job’s hotel.  Mr. Job would doubtless be pleased to recover his long-lost volume, and I had no more wish than right to retain it.

Job’s hotel was unpretending.  Mrs. Job offered me ham and eggs and, as an alternative, a cut off a boiled silver-side of beef, if I did not mind waiting for ten minutes or so, when her husband would be back to dinner.  I said that I would wait, and added that I should be pleased to make Mr. Job’s acquaintance on his return, as I had a trifling message for him.

About ten minutes later, while studying a series of German lithographs in the coffee-room, I heard a heavy footstep in the passage and a knock at the door; and Mr. Job appeared, a giant of a man, with a giant’s girth and red cheeks, which he sufflated as a preliminary of speech.

“Good day, Mr. Job,” said I.  “I won’t keep you from your dinner, but the fact is, I am the unwilling guardian of a trifle belonging to you.”  And I showed him the Visitors’ Book.

I thought the man would have had an apoplectic fit there on the spot.  He rolled his eyes, dropped heavily upon a chair, and began to breathe hard and short.

“Where—­where—?” he gasped, and began to struggle again for breath.

I said, “For some reason or other the sight of this book distresses you, and I think you had better not try to speak for a bit.  I will tell you exactly how the book came into my possession, and afterwards you can let me have your side of the story, if you choose.”  And I told him just what I have told the reader.

At the conclusion, Mr. Job loosed his neckcloth and spoke—­