Ponto had followed me.
I felt at once that the dog's superior powers of divination might be of
use, on such an errand as mine was. We set out together for Kylam.
Wildly hurried--without any fixed idea in my mind--I ran to Kylam, for
the greater part of the way. It was now very dark. On a sandy creek,
below the village, I came in contact with something solid enough to hurt
me for the moment. It was the stranded boat.
A smoker generally has matches about him. Helped by my little short-lived
lights, I examined the interior of the boat. There was absolutely nothing
in it but a strip of old tarpaulin--used, as I guessed, to protect the
boat, or something that it carried, in rainy weather.
The village population had long since been in bed. Silence and darkness
mercilessly defied me to discover anything. For a while I waited,
encouraging the dog to circle round me and exercise his sense of smell.
Any suspicious person or object he would have certainly discovered.
Nothing--not even the fallen stick of the rocket--rewarded our patience.
Determined to leave nothing untried, I groped, rather than found, my way
to the village ale house, and succeeded at last in rousing the landlord.
He hailed me from the window (naturally enough) in no friendly voice. I
called out my name. Within my own little limits, it was the name of a
celebrated person. The landlord opened his door directly; eager to answer
my questions if he could do it.
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