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Updated: June 28, 2025
No longer had I any thought of braving the night and the perils of the road, but pressed my elbows tight against my ribs and raced straight for Stimcoe's. By great good fortune, Mr. Stimcoe had been drinking the health of the returned prisoners until his own was temporarily affected. In fact, as I reached Delamere Terrace, panting and excogitating the likeliest excuse to offer Mrs.
Stimcoe, the door of No. 7 opened, and the lady herself emerged upon the night, with a shawl swathed carelessly over her masculine neck and shoulders. I drew up and ducked aside to avoid recognition, but she halted under the lamp and called to me, in no very severe voice "Harry!" "Yes, ma'am!" "You are late, and I have been needing you. Mr. Stimcoe is suffering from an attack."
Doggy Bates, Pilkington, and Scotty Maclean had hied them immediately after breakfast to the harbour, to beg, borrow, or steal a boat and fish for mackerel; and Mrs. Stimcoe, worn out with watching, set down my faithful presence to motives of which I was shamefully innocent. In point of fact, I had lurked at home because I could not bear company.
"You are a very good boy, Harry," said Mrs. Stimcoe a verdict so different from that which I had arrived expecting, or with any right to expect, that I stood for some twenty seconds gaping after her as she pulled her shawl closer and went on her heroic way. I found Mr.
My earliest inquiries there were addressed to the pedagogue the Reverend Something-or-other Stimcoe a drunken idiot, who yielded no information at all; and to his wife, a lady who persisted in regarding me as sent from heaven for no other purpose than to discharge her small debts. From her, again, I learned nothing.
Upon commerce in the concrete that is to say, upon the butchers, bakers, and other honest tradesmen of Falmouth Mrs. Stimcoe waged a predatory war, and waged it without quarter. She had a genius for opening accounts, and something more than genius for keeping her creditors at bay.
I was already late for names-calling; but for this I cared little. Stimcoe had not the courage to flog me; the day had been a holiday, and of a sort to excuse indiscipline; and, anyway, one might as well suffer for a sheep as for a lamb. The St. Mawes packet would be lying alongside the Market Strand. The moon was up a round, full moon and directly over St.
Captain Branscome who, to the knowledge of both of us, never had a shilling in his pocket stood there nervously proffering me a guinea! Mrs. Stimcoe, having begged Captain Branscome to take watch for a while over the invalid, and having helped me to pack a few clothes in a handbag, herself accompanied me to the coach-office, where we found the Royal Mail on the point of starting.
Stimcoe, he suddenly lifted his head, and stood listening. "Hallo!" said he. "Here's the coach!" I had heard nothing, though my ears are pretty sharp. But sure enough, though not until a couple of minutes had passed, the wheels of the Highflyer, our evening coach to Plymouth, sounded far along the road. The stranger pulled out a bunch of keys from his pocket.
Stimcoe lifted her hand and lowered it again, at the same moment bowing her head with a meaning I could not mistake. I gazed dizzily at Captain Branscome, and the look on his face told me I cannot tell you how that he knew what the letter had to tell, and had been expecting it.
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