A  single  vessel  was  lying  in  the  stream.  Was  it  Yan
Schenkel's  ?  A  boat,  the  only  boat  visible  on  the  Sun-
day tide,  was  making  its  way,  not  toward,  but  past  the


"  1  think  I  know,"  reflected  Harold,  "  that  the  man
in  the  stern  of  that  boat  is  Van  Schenkel.  He  has
shoulders  like  the  pie-rat's,  and  carries  his  head  the  same
way.  But  it  can't  be  his  vessel,  for  his  boat  is  going
beyond  it,  toward  Breuckelen.  George  Martin  is  not  in
that  ship.  I  will  wait  and  watch,  though.  The  boat
may  come  back  to  the  vessel."

The  little  craft  patiently  made  its  way  to  the  Breucke-
len shore,  and  there  halted.  Harold  waited  a  long  time.
He  saw  no  prospect  of  the  boat's  return,  and  was  discour-


162  BEHIND  MANHATTAN   GABLES.
aged.  He  was  hungry,  and  he  might  lose  his  dinner  if
he  waited  longer.  He  turned  toward  his  tavern,  with
its  sanded  floor  and  steaming  table.
Soon  after  he  left  the  water-gate,  Van  Schenkel's  boat
pushed  off  from  the  Breuckelen  shore,  and  was  rowed  to
the  vessel.  It  was  Yan  Schenkel's  ship,  and  George
Martin  was  aboard.  Early  the  next  morning  it  let  out
its  white  sails  and  slowly  floated  away.
CHAPTER  XIII.
THE     WRONG     BOOK.
HAROLD  was  at  the  negro's  the  next  day  as  the  sun
was  going  down,  and  the  negro  said  he  was  better.
"  Me  feel  better  when  de  injul  come,"  Harold  was  in-
formed.
"  Injun  ?"

"  Injul,  injul,  in — jul."

"  How  old  is  he— the— "

"  Me  dunno.     It  am — she  !"

"Some  wrinkled  Indian  squaw,  probably,"  thought
Harold.
