mixes his north-country accent with a twang learned in the West-end
theatres, and he never goes ashore without a tall hat and an umbrella.
His walk is a grievous trouble to his mind. The ideal ship-broker has a
straight and seemly gait; but no captain who ever tried to imitate the
ship-broker could quite do away with a certain nautical roll. The
new-fashioned captain is not content with that simple old political
creed of true sailors, which began and ended with the assertion that one
Englishman could beat any six foreigners. This is crude in his eyes. He
knows all about Gladstone and the Land Bill; he is abreast of his age in
knowledge of the Eastern Question; and he claims kindred with a Party.
His self-confidence is phenomenal, but not often offensive. In short, he
is a sort of nautical bagman, with all the faults and all the
business-like virtues of his kind.




THE SQUIRE.


Every afternoon when the weather was bright, an erect old man used to
ride round the Fisher Row on a stout cob. If the men happened to be
sitting in the sun, on the benches, he would stop and speak to them, in
sharp, ringing accents, and he always had a word for the women as they
sat baiting their lines in the open air. He called the men by their
Christian names, and they called him by the name of his estate. None of
the fishermen ever ventured to be familiar with him; but he often held
long talks with them about commonplace matters. They considered that
they had a proprietary interest in him, and they always inquired about
his family affairs. He would tell them that Mr. Harry had gone with his