He looked round the group, and fixed on old
Marshall as the probable owner of the yacht.
"Good morning," he said. "I believe you have a Mr. Lattaker on
board--Mr. George Lattaker?"
"Yes," said Marshall. "He's down below. Want to see him? Whom shall I
say?"
"He would not know my name. I should like to see him for a moment on
somewhat urgent business."
"Take a seat. He'll be up in a moment. Reggie, my boy, go and hurry him
up."
I went down to George's state-room.
"George, old man!" I shouted.
No answer. I opened the door and went in. The room was empty. What's
more, the bunk hadn't been slept in. I don't know when I've been more
surprised. I went on deck.
"He isn't there," I said.
"Not there!" said old Marshall. "Where is he, then? Perhaps he's gone
for a stroll ashore. But he'll be back soon for breakfast. You'd better
wait for him. Have you breakfasted? No? Then will you join us?"
The man said he would, and just then the gong went and they trooped
down, leaving me alone on deck.
I sat smoking and thinking, and then smoking a bit more, when I thought
I heard somebody call my name in a sort of hoarse whisper. I looked
over my shoulder, and, by Jove, there at the top of the gangway in
evening dress, dusty to the eyebrows and without a hat, was dear old
George.
"Great Scot!" I cried.
"'Sh!" he whispered.
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