It was Sunday night, and the lounging room was full.  One of the inmates rose and offered him a chair—­he was much respected in the village, especially among the rougher class, some of whom had sailed with him—­but he only waved his hand in thanks.

“I don’t want to sit down; I’m looking for Bart.  Has he been here?” The sound came as if from between closed teeth.

“Not as I know of, cap’n,” answered the landlord; “not since sundown, nohow.”

“Do any of you know where he is?” The look in the captain’s eyes and the sharp, cutting tones of his voice began to be noticed.

“Do ye want him bad?” asked a man tilted back in a chair against the wall.

“Yes.”

“Well, I kin tell ye where to find him,”

“Where?”

“Down on the beach in the Refuge shanty.  He and the boys have a deck there Sunday nights.  Been at it all fall—­thought ye knowed it.”

Out into the night again, and without a word of thanks, down the road and across the causeway to the hard beach, drenched with the ceaseless thrash of the rising sea.  He followed no path, picked out no road.  Stumbling along in the half-gloom of the twilight, he could make out the heads of the sand-dunes, bearded with yellow grass blown flat against their cheeks.  Soon he reached the prow of the old wreck with its shattered timbers and the water-holes left by the tide.  These he avoided, but the smaller objects he trampled upon and over as he strode on, without caring where he stepped or how often he stumbled.  Outlined against the sand-hills, bleached white under the dull light, he looked like some evil presence bent on mischief, so direct and forceful was his unceasing, persistent stride.

When the House of Refuge loomed up against the gray froth of the surf he stopped and drew breath.  Bending forward, he scanned the beach ahead, shading his eyes with his hand as he would have done on his own ship in a fog.  He could make out now some streaks of yellow light showing through the cracks one above the other along the side of the house and a dull patch of red.  He knew what it meant.  Bart and his fellows were inside, and were using one of the ship lanterns to see by.

This settled in his mind, the captain strode on, but at a slower pace.  He had found his bearings, and would steer with caution.

Hugging the dunes closer, he approached the house from the rear.  The big door was shut and a bit of matting had been tacked over the one window to deaden the light.  This was why the patch of red was dull.  He stood now so near the outside planking that he could hear the laughter and talk of those within.  By this time the wind had risen to half a gale and the moan on the outer bar could be heard in the intervals of the pounding surf.  The captain crept under the eaves of the roof and listened.  He wanted to be sure of Bart’s voice before he acted.

At this instant a sudden gust of wind burst in the big door, extinguishing the light of the lantern, and Bart’s voice rang out: