Miss Cordsen was everywhere, prim and noiseless as usual, and without wasting a word, she gave an eye to the vast amount of knives and forks, lights and silver, glass and china.  Everything was arranged in her experienced head, from the ladies’ cloak-room to the supper for the musicians.

But if there was a busy stir in the house, it was even greater down at the ship-yard.  Tom Robson had kept his promise, and the ship stood trim and ready, “as a bride,” as he put it.  And now the whole staff of workmen were occupied in getting everything in order for the morrow, and clearing out the yard, so that it might look tidy and neat when all the visitors came to see the ship “go.”

“What time will it be high water, Mr. Robson?” asked the young Consul, as he and Uncle Richard were making an inspection of the ship-yard in the afternoon.

“At half-past ten, sir,” answered the foreman.

“Very well, then, let me see that you have everything ready to-morrow at half-past ten, on the stroke, you understand—­at half-past ten on the stroke.”

“All right, sir!” said Mr. Robson, touching his cap.

But Tom Robson was not going to leave anything till the morning.  That evening he had every intention of making a night of it, and Martin had already got the money to make some extensive purchases.  There would be time enough to sleep it off before half-past ten.  He was careful to have everything ready that evening.  The ways were carefully smeared with tallow and soft soap, and put in their places; the props were all ready to be removed; and everything that might get in the way in the harbour, was hauled out of the way and secured to its moorings.

The ship lay with her stern towards the water, and her stem slightly raised above it.  Under her bows lay all the material for use the next day.  The spare pieces of timber that were to be put under her, and the wedges which were to be driven in to raise her forward, were ready to hand, as were the jacks and levers.  Everything, in fact, down to the long-handled mauls was in its place.

Gabriel followed at Tom’s heels all day.  He wanted to take in everything clearly, and succeeded fully in so doing.  Only one thing, the ship’s name, that he was so anxious to know, still remained a secret, which Tom would not betray.  And Tom himself it was who, in accordance with the Consul’s orders, had spiked on the name-board when it was nearly dark.

The company at Anders Begmand’s had been busy that evening, especially Tom Robson, and by the time it was about ten o’clock he was pretty well tipsy.  Woodlouse was no better; but Torpander kept as sober as usual, looking towards the door every time he heard a noise.  With the darkness a fresh breeze began to blow up from the south-west, which swept over the open ground above Sandsgaard and down on to the fjord.  It made the old cottage shake again when the wind came back in eddies from the hill behind it, and Torpander got up every moment, thinking that the door was opening, to the endless amusement of Mr. Robson.