A week after the wreck of the French brig on the Squid Rocks, Dick Lynch entered a public-house situated near the eastern end of Water Street, St. John’s, sat down at a table near the fire and called for rum.  Though Dick consumed much rum, he did not often buy it at this establishment; for he roomed in Mother McKay’s cottage on the hill, back of the city, and Mother McKay kept a shebeen.  To-day, however, Dick had felt that he could stand no more of Mother McKay’s liquor nor of the honest dame’s society, either.  The rum was weak and harsh and the society was distracting to his thoughts.  What he wanted was matured liquor and quiet, so that he might nail down his somewhat vague plans of returning to Chance Along and overthrowing the skipper thereof.  The hour was that of the evening dusk.  He was alone in this particular room of the Ship Ahoy Hotel, but he could hear the voices of other imbibers barking and rolling from an adjoining apartment.  He gulped down half of his rum and lit his pipe.  The proprietor entered then, threw a lump of coal on the fire and lit a ship’s lantern that hung from the middle rafter.  Next moment, the outer door opened, and a man entered from the muddy street, his sou’easter, oilskin coat and ruddy young face all agleam with moisture.

“Good evenin’ to ye, Mister Darlin’,” said the proprietor.  “Foul weather, bain’t it, sir?”

“Aye, Jake, foul weather it is,” returned the young man, throwing aside his dripping hat.  “Bring me whiskey,—­hot, with a slice of lemon in it and a lump of sugar.”

Jake departed, and Mr. Darling sat down beside the fire and pulled a short wooden pipe from an inner pocket.  In repose, his young, clean-shaven face wore an expression of gravity that verged upon the dismal.  He filled his pipe with cut tobacco from a leather bag, lit it and then glanced at Dick Lynch through a puff of twisting blue smoke.  He caught Dick’s eyes full upon him, for that worthy had been staring at him ever since he had removed his dripping sou’easter.  He removed his pipe from his mouth and leaned forward.

“Hullo!” he said.  “I’ll swear this isn’t the first time I’ve seen that black mug of yours, my man!  But it wasn’t in St. John’s—­an’ it wasn’t aboard any ship.”

Dick Lynch was of the same way of thinking, for he recognized this young man as the officer from the Durham Castle, who had commanded the party that had been left behind by Captain McTavish to guard the wreck of that good ship.  He took another swig at his glass and shifted his eyes to the fire.

“Sure, sir, ye may be right,” he said.  “Was it in Harbor Grace ye seed me?”

“No.  I have never set foot in Harbor Grace,” returned Mr. Darling.

“That bes my home, sir—­Harbor Grace,” lied Dick, cheerfully.

Just then Jake entered with Mr. Darling’s toddy.  He set it at the young sailor’s elbow, hoped it was entirely to his taste, and retired.  Darling sipped the toddy, puffed twice at his pipe, then fixed his keen glance upon Lynch’s face.