What could one say to a fellow like that? But I was bored to
death; the weather continued impossible; and I resolved to be
amiable.

"And so you make these tales up on your own. How do they ever come
into your head?" he rumbled.

I explained that one generally got a hint for a tale.

"What sort of hint?"

"Well, for instance," I said, "I got myself rowed out to the rocks
the other day. My boatman told me of the wreck on these rocks
nearly twenty years ago. That could be used as a hint for a mainly
descriptive bit of story with some such title as 'In the Channel,'
for instance."

It was then that he flew out at the boatmen and the summer visitors
who listen to their tales. Without moving a muscle of his face he
emitted a powerful "Rot," from somewhere out of the depths of his
chest, and went on in his hoarse, fragmentary mumble. "Stare at
the silly rocks--nod their silly heads [the visitors, I presume].
What do they think a man is--blown-out paper bag or what?--go off
pop like that when he's hit--Damn silly yarn--Hint indeed! . . . A
lie?"

You must imagine this statuesque ruffian enhaloed in the black rim
of his hat, letting all this out as an old dog growls sometimes,
with his head up and staring-away eyes.