“Because he reckoned I couldn’ run—­or wouldn’, as I’ve never run from him yet.  But with you in the secret I must give him leg-bail, no matter what it costs me.  And, see here, Brooks:  you’re clever for your age, an’ I want your advice.  In the first place, I daren’t go home; that’s where he’ll be watchin’ for me sooner or later.  Next, our plans ain’t laid for startin’ straight off—­here as we be—­an’ givin’ him the go-by.  Third an’ last, I daren’t go carryin’ the secret about with me; he might happen on me any moment, an’ I’m not in trainin’.  The drink’s done for me, boy, whereas he’ve been farin’ hard an’ livin’ clean.”  Captain Coffin, with his hands deep in his pockets, stared down at the transport at anchor below, and bent his brows.  “I can’t turn it over to you, neither,” he mused.  “That might ha’ done well enough if he hadn’ seen you in my company; but now we can’t trust to it.”

He took another dozen paces forth and back, and halted before me again.

“Brooks,” he said, “how about your father?”

“The very man, sir,” I answered; “that is, if you would trust him.”

“Cap’n Branscome tells me he’s one in a thousand.  I thought first o’ Branscome, but there’s folks as know about my goin’ to him for navigation lessons; an’ if Glass got hold o’ that, ’twould be a hot scent.”

“Glass?” I echoed.

“That’s his d—­d name, lad—­Aaron Glass; though he’ve passed under others, and plenty of ’em, in his time.  Well, now, if I can slip out o’ Falmouth unbeknowns to him, an’ win to your father—­on the Plymouth road, I’ve heard you say and a little this side of St. Germans—­”

“You might walk over to Penryn and pick up the night coach.”

Captain Coffin shook his head as he turned out his pockets.

“One shilling, lad, an’ two ha’pennies.  It won’t carry me.  An’ I daren’ go home to refit; an’ I daren’ send you.”

“I could take a message to Captain Branscome,” I suggested; “an’ he might fetch you the money, if you tell him where to look for it.”

“That’s an idea,” decided Captain Coffin, after a moment’s thought.  He unbuttoned his waistcoat, dived a hand within the breast of his shirt, and pulled forth a key looped through with a tarry string.  This string he severed with his pocket-knife.  “Run you down to the cap’n’s lodgings,” said he, handing me the key, “an’ tell him to go straight an’ unlock the cupboard in the cornder—­the one wi’ the toolips painted over the door.  You know it?  Well, say that on the second shelf he’ll find a small bagful o’ money—­he needn’t stay to count it—­an’ ’pon the same shelf, right back in the cornder, a roll o’ papers.  Tell him to keep the papers till he hears from me, but the bag he’s to give to you, an’ you’re to bring it along quick—­ with the key.  Mind, you’re not to go with him on any account; an’ if you should run against this Glass on your way, give him a wide berth—­go