“Whatnow?”Iasked.“Tobyhaslosthischaracterforinfallibility.”
“Heactedaccordingtohislights,”saidHolmes,liftinghimdownfromthebarrelandwalkinghimoutofthetimber-yard.“IfyouconsiderhowmuchcreasoteiscartedaboutLondoninoneday,itisnogreatwonderthatourtrailshouldhavebeencrossed.Itismuchusednow,especiallyfortheseasoningofwood.PoorTobyisnottoblame.”
“Wemustgetonthemainscentagain,Isuppose.”
“Yes.And,fortunately,wehavenodistancetogo.EvidentlywhatpuzzledthedogatthecornerofKnight’sPlacewasthatthereweretwodifferenttrailsrunninginoppositedirections.Wetookthewrongone.Itonlyremainstofollowtheother.”
Therewasnodifficultyaboutthis.OnleadingTobytotheplacewherehehadcommittedhisfault,hecastaboutinawidecircleandfinallydashedoffinafreshdirection.
“Wemusttakecarethathedoesnotnowbringustotheplacewherethecreasote-barrelcamefrom,”Iobserved.
“Ihadthoughtofthat.Butyounoticethathekeepsonthepavement,whereasthebarrelpasseddowntheroadway.No,weareonthetruescentnow.”
Ittendeddowntowardstheriver-side,runningthroughBelmontPlaceandPrince’sStreet.AttheendofBroadStreetitranrightdowntothewater’sedge,wheretherewasasmallwoodenwharf.Tobyledustotheveryedgeofthis,andtherestoodwhining,lookingoutonthedarkcurrentbeyond.
“Weareoutofluck,”saidHolmes.“Theyhavetakentoaboathere.”Severalsmallpuntsandskiffswerelyingaboutinthewaterandontheedgeofthewharf.WetookTobyroundtoeachinturn,but,thoughhesniffedearnestly,hemadenosign.
Closetotherudelanding-stagewasasmallbrickhouse,withawoodenplacardslungoutthroughthesecondwindow.“MordecaiSmith”wasprintedacrossitinlargeletters,and,underneath,“Boatstohirebythehourorday.”Asecondinscriptionabovethedoorinformedusthatasteamlaunchwaskept,—astatementwhichwasconfirmedbyagreatpileofcokeuponthejetty.SherlockHolmeslookedslowlyround,andhisfaceassumedanominousexpression.
“Thislooksbad,”saidhe.“ThesefellowsaresharperthanIexpected.Theyseemtohavecoveredtheirtracks.Therehas,Ifear,beenpreconcert