I'll call in a policeman. There'll be one on his
beat at the end of the row by this time. It is right and just all
proper inquiries should be made."

The policeman--a stolid, sober individual, who never wasted words--came
at George Paterson's bidding, and looked with a professional eye at the
drawer whence the money had been abstracted.

"Box and all gone! That's queer. Key of box fastened to it by a
string. Humph! Any servant in the house?"

"No."

"Boy that cleans up and takes down the shutters, eh?"

"_No_--that is--my nephew was in the house, and," said Miss Pinckney
with emphasis, "he ran off to sea last night."

The policeman gave a prolonged "Ah!"

Then he proceeded to examine the lock of the drawer.

"Where's the key?"

"Here, in my key basket. I lock the drawer the last thing, and lock
the shop-door myself. You know that, Patience. Speak up."

"Yes, I know it--I know it."

"Well, there seems no certain clue," the policeman said, twisting the
key of the drawer round and round in the lock.

"There's this clue," Miss Pinckney said; "my nephew who ran off to sea
stole the box. He and I had quarrelled a bit, for he was the most
impudent and trying young vagabond. If you wish to know my thoughts,
policeman, they are that he took the cash-box."

"There's no proof. We must have proof. But there's suspicion. We
must try to track the youngster, find out what ship he sailed in; and
when she comes into port, why, we'll keep an eye on the little chap."

The policeman had no more to say just then, and departed, saying to
George, who shouldered his tools and followed him, "I know the boy. A
sharp one, isn't he?"

"An honest one, if ever an honest boy lived," was the rejoinder, as
George Paterson strode away.

CHAPTER IV.

_HIS OWN WAY._

Jack Harrison had no fixed purpose when he rushed out of his aunt's
house, except to get away from the sound of her angry words, and from
the sight of his mother's grieved face--that face, which bore the marks
of so many storms, and which he loved better than any other in the
world.

"I had better go," he reasoned with himself. "I may make a fortune.
Suppose I go aboard a whaling ship, as my father did. I won't go
aboard a smack or trawler; I should not care for that life--handling
fish, and out all weathers, north of the Dogger trawling--no, that
would not pay, but a good ship would; and I'll take a look round the
quay as soon as it's light."