Nicky-Nan limped to the porch and peeked out (as they say at
Polpier). Up the street the women stood clacking the news just as
though it were a week-day and the boats had brought in a famous haul.
Feminine gossip in Polpier is not conducted in groups, as the men
conduct theirs on the Quay. By tradition each housewife takes post
on her own threshold-slate, and knits while she talks with her
neighbours to right and left and across the road; thus a bit of news,
with comment and embellishment zigzags from door to door through the
town like a postal delivery. To-day being Sunday, the women had no
knitting; but it was observable that while Mrs Trebilcock, two doors
away, led the chorus as usual, her hands moved as though plying
imaginary needles: and so did the hands of Sarah Jane Johns over the
way.

Down by the bridge-end two men in uniform sat side by side on the low
parapet, sorting out a small pile of blue papers. They were Mr
Irons, the chief officer of Coastguard at Troy, and a young
custom-house officer--a stranger to Nicky-Nan. The morning sunlight
played on their brass buttons and cap-rims.

Nicky-Nan withdrew his head hastily.

"Where's Sam?" he asked.

"Gone down to Billy Bosistow's to fetch his sea-boots."

"I don't follow 'ee." Nicky-Nan rubbed his unshaven jaw with two
fingers. "Is the world come to its end, then, that Billy Bosistow
keeps open shop on a Sunday mornin'?"