Atlantic. I will ship a crew in Rotterdam, and sail for Buenos Ayres. By selling the watch and chain and one or two other little things I shall have enough money to buy stores and pay all other expenses of the voyage. Once in Buenos Ayres, I will go to the agent of the —— Bank. There is sure to be one. I will show him my papers. I will prove to his satisfaction that I am Arthur Allen, barrister-at-law, owner of the yacht Petrel. I will explain that I have run short of money, and require a considerable sum at once. The agent will telegraph to the bank, learn that I have there securities to a large amount, and then he will be ready to advance to me as much as I want; and I will want a good deal. I will say that I am about to buy land, or tell some such plausible tale, get my money, and away. Oh, most excellent plan! Who on earth is likely to suspect that the yachting barrister is no other than Henry Carew, the defaulting solicitor?"

He steered the vessel towards the Dutch coast, and soon the wind fell so much that he was able to shake out all his reefs.

At ten he passed through a large fleet of fishing boats that were riding to their nets. He hailed an English smack, asking her skipper if he could tell him his position.

"You'll get hold of the land in an hour or so," shouted the man; "and, as you are going now, you'll about fetch Goeree."

Carew, after consulting the chart, steered in a more northerly direction. At midday he saw the loom of the land ahead of him; so, as the sky was clear, he brought up the sextant and took an observation of the sun, thus ascertaining his exact position.

"Lucky it is that I taught myself navigation," he thought; "it will come in useful now."

At last he could plainly distinguish the features of the coast, which was low and flat, with white sand-hills here and there that gleamed like snow in the sunshine.

Then he saw a steeple, a lighthouse, and a group of cottages, with bright red roofs, and he knew that he was off the village of Scheveningen, which is a few miles to the north of the Maas. Sailing to the southward, he soon reached the mouth of the river, and at once some of the ever-watchful pilots pulled off to him in a small boat.

Carew hove the yacht to, and waited for them. The boat was soon alongside. Four little old men, all fat and rosy, were in her. One who understood English well was the spokesman. Standing up in the stern he shouted—

"Captain, you want pilot, sar?"

"Yes; how much do you want to take me to Rotterdam?"

Carew felt how necessary it was to husband his funds, and he suspected that Dutch pilots consider a yacht fair prey for extortion.

The man named an exorbitant sum.

"Nonsense! Too much. I'll sail her in myself."

"Right, captain," replied the Dutchman calmly; "that better for me and my mates. You try and go in alone, you sure to run ashore. Then we help you off, and you give us plenty money for salvage instead of small pilot-fee."

Carew felt that it might happen as the old man had said. The Maas is encumbered with shoals, and the navigation is difficult for a stranger.

"Now, how much you give me, captain?"

The solicitor mentioned a moderate sum.

"Ah, you rich man with yacht to be hard on poor pilot! Now, I pilot you for the middle price."

"Come on board, then," said Carew.

The pilot leapt on to the yacht's deck, and the other three pulled away in their boat.

"Now, captain. Tide in river running strong, wind is light; so we want all sail, or else we no move. Call up your hands and hoist topsail."

"There are no hands below. I am alone," replied Carew.

"Alone? What do you mean? You come from England all alone?" exclaimed the man in great astonishment.

"Yes; my crew got drunk and were insolent just before I sailed. They thought I could not do without them, and they knew I was in a hurry. But I put them all on shore without hesitation, and I have come across alone."

"You a very mad Englishman, but you a brave man. I never hear anything like that."

"Pilot," said Carew, later on, as they were sailing up the river, "I don't want to be followed about Rotterdam as if I were a curiosity; so I should like you not to mention the fact of my having sailed across the sea alone."

"All right, captain; my mouth close."

"I shall want a crew of two or three good, honest Dutchmen, pilot. Can you recommend me any men?"

"This very night you shall have one—my cousin Willem—a very good boy, captain."

"And there is another thing, pilot. What sort of a berth are you going to put me in in Rotterdam?"

"I will moor you along the Boompjees; nice quays them. Plenty good Schiedam shops on shore there. All yachts go there."

"I thought so; that's why I asked. Now, pilot, I do not want to be moored along the Boompjees. Take me to some quiet canal, out of the way; you understand—a place where no yachts or foreign vessels go."

"Ah, I know, captain, just the place: nothing but Holland schuyts there; no yachts like it, no captains like it; I not think you will like it."

"I will go there. But why don't you think I shall like it?"

"You no have Dutch nose; and that canal plenty smellful, captain."

CHAPTER IV

A narrow canal that pierces an out-of-the-way corner of old Rotterdam. Mediæval houses—narrow, lofty, terminating in quaint, pointed gables—overhang the sluggish waters. It is only frequented by the picturesque native canal boats, with their lofty masts and varnished oak sides, so marvellously clean, for all their dirty work. In this quiet spot, with its old-world, decaying look, it is difficult to realise that close at hand are the busy quays of the Boompjees, crowded with vessels from all parts of the world, noisy with the haste of modern commerce.

It is a bit of Rotterdam that does not change. The British tourist, unless he has lost himself, never explores the narrow alleys that lead down to the slimy water—a gloomy, dead quarter of the city, pervaded by a smell that is ancient and fish-like and something worse.

It was a sultry August midday. No breath of air stirred the water of the canal, which seemed to be fermenting under the fierce sunshine, and foul gases bubbled up on its surface.

Only one of the many vessels moored along the quay flew a foreign flag. The blue ensign of Great Britain hung motionless from the mizzen of the yacht Petrel.

On the deck was a sturdy little man in baggy trousers, who, despite the languid influence of the day, was employed in polishing the brass-work on the vessel with an extraordinary energy. This was Willem, the pilot's cousin, who had entered into Carew's service, and who had, with Dutch diligence, set himself the task of scrubbing the yacht up to his high standard of Dutch smartness as quickly as possible.

The owner—by right of undisputed possession—was below, looking over some charts of the South Atlantic, which he had just purchased. The solicitor had been making all his preparations as rapidly but as quietly as possible. But little now remained to be done. So far, honest Willem was the only hand he had engaged; but he knew that he could easily ship as many men as he needed at a moment's notice in so large a seaport as Rotterdam. He told no one of his projected voyage across the Atlantic, knowing that to do so would at once attract attention to him; and he naturally dreaded that publicity should be given to his doings.

He showed himself in the streets as little as possible, and he always went forth to make his purchases in the early morning