The rain--the last, for many weeks, to visit Polpier--cleared up soon
after midday. At one o'clock or thereabouts Nicky-Nan, having dined
on a stale crust and a slice of bacon, and recovered somewhat from
his first alarm (as even so frugal a meal will put courage into a
man), ventured to the porch again for a look at the weather.
The weather and the set of the wind always come first in a Polpier
man's interest. They form the staple of conversation on the
Quay-side. Fish ranks next: after fish, religion: after religion,
clack about boats and persons; and so we come down to politics, peace
and war, the manner of getting to foreign ports and the kind of
people one finds in them.

Nicky-Nan could read very few signs of the weather from his dark
little parlour. The gully of the river deflected all true winds, and
the overhanging houses closed in all but a narrow strip of sky,
prolonged study of which was apt to induce a crick in the neck.
To be sure, certain winds could be recognised by their voices: a
southerly one of any consequence announced itself by a curious
droning note which, if it westered a little, rose to a sharp whistle
and, in anything above half-a-gale, to a scream. But to _see_ what
the weather was like, you must go to the front porch.

Nicky-Nan went to the front porch and gazed skyward. The wind--as
the saying is--had "catched in," and was blowing briskly from the
north-west, chasing diaphanous clouds across the blue zenith.
The roofs still shone wet and dazzling, and there were puddles in the
street. But he knew the afternoon was going to be a fine one.
He took pleasure in this when, a few moments later, his ear caught
the thudding of a distant drum. . . . Yes, yes--it was Bank Holiday,
and the children would be assembling, up the valley, for the