There was a small beach of rolling shingle and, beyond this, clinging
like barnacles to the rocky hillside, were a couple of decrepit houses.
Some big flakes and a fish-house were built over the water, on spidery
legs. A few children, very stolid of face and unkempt, watched our
arrival and stared at me. A man, in half-bared arms dotted about the
wrists with remnants of what they call gurry-sores, stood at the water's
edge, waiting to lend a hand. There appears to be no anchorage in this
deep hole. The sails were quickly wrapped around the masts and our
forefoot gently grated against the pebbles. Then all the men jumped out
and dragged the boat up, using some rollers.

"She'll do now," announced Sammy. "Tide's on the ebb, anyways."

There was no lack of hands to help me jump out on the little beach.
Frenchy's small boy had clambered out like a monkey and, like myself, was
an object of silent curiosity to the local urchins. The scent of fish
prevailed, of course, but it was less pronounced than at Sweetapple Cove,
very probably for the unfortunate reason that very few fish had been
caught, of late. Indeed, it was a fine drying day and yet the poor flakes
were nearly bare.

"Bring up the barrel, Sammy," said the doctor. "I'm going up to the
house. I don't think I'll keep you waiting very long, Miss Jelliffe."

He hastened up, scrambling up the rocky path, and entered the house. I
followed him, perhaps rather indiscreetly. This queer atmosphere of
poverty had affected me, I think, and I suddenly became eager to see
whether I could not be of some help.