In the morning, before the correspondents had begun on the next instalment of their serial story, I saw Pascoe sitting up in a bed at another inn, his expenses an investment of the newspaper men.  He was unsubdued.  He was even exalted.  He did not think it strange to see me there, though it was not difficult to guess that he had his doubts about the quality of the publicity he had attracted, and of the motive for the ardent attentions of his new and strange acquaintances from London.  “Don’t be hard on me,” he begged, “for not telling you more in London.  But you’re so cautious and distrustful.  I was going to tell you, but was uncertain what you’d say.  Now I’ve started and you can’t stop me.  I’ve met a man here named Hopkins, who has given me some help and advice.  As soon as my craft is repaired, I’m off again.  It was unlucky to meet that sou’wester in July.  But once out of home waters, I ought to be able to pick up the Portuguese trade wind off Finisterre, and then I’m good for the Caribbees.  I’ll do it.  She should take no more than a fortnight to put right.”

There was no need to argue with him.  The Heart’s Desire, a centre of attraction in the place, answered any doubt I had as to Pascoe’s safety.  But he was humoured.  Hopkins humoured him, even openly encouraged him.  The Heart’s Desire was destined for a great adventure.  The world was kept in anticipation of the second departure for this strange voyage to Guatemala.  The Heart’s Desire on the edge of a ship-repairer’s yard, was tinkered, patched, refitted, made as right as she could be.  The ship-repairer, the money for the work made certain for him, did what he was told, but made no comment, except to interrogate me curiously when I was about.

A spring tide, with a southerly wind, brought us to a natural conclusion.  An unexpected lift of the water washed off the Heart’s Desire, rolled her about, and left her broken on the mud.  I met the journalists in a group on their way to the afternoon train, their faces still reflecting the brightness of an excellent entertainment.  Hopkins took me aside.  “I’ve made it right with old Pascoe.  He hasn’t lost anything by it, you can be sure of that.”  But I was looking for the cobbler, and all I wished to learn was the place where I was likely to find him.  They did not know that.

Late that evening I was still looking for him, and it had been raining for hours.  The streets of the village were dark and deserted.  Passing one of the many inns, which were the only illumination of the village, I stumbled over a shadow on the cobbles outside.  In the glow of a match I found Pascoe, drunk, with his necessary stick beside him, broken.

V. The Master