We all three boarded the Dulcibella, and then the end came. Our
tow-rope was attached, and at half-past six the little launch jumped
into the collar, and amidst a demonstration that could not have been
more hearty if we had been ambassadors on a visit to a friendly
power, we sidled out through the jetties.

It took us more than an hour to cover the five miles to Spiekeroog,
for the Dulcibella was a heavy load in the stiff head wind, and
Davies, though he said nothing, showed undisguised distrust of our
tug's capacities. He at once left the helm to me and flung himself on
the gear, not resting till every rope was ready to hand, the mainsail
reefed, the binnacle lighted, and all ready for setting sail or
anchoring at a moment's notice. Our guest watched these precautions
with infinite amusement. He was in the highest and most mischievous
humour, raining banter on Davies and mock sympathy on me, laughing at
our huge compass, heaving the lead himself, startling us with
imaginary soundings, and doubting if his men were sober. I offered
entertainment and warmth below, but he declined on the ground that
Davies would be tempted to cut the tow-rope and make us pass the
night on a safe sandbank. Davies took the raillery unmoved. His work
done, he took the tiller and sat bareheaded, intent on the launch,
the course, the details, and chances of the present. I brought up
cigars and we settled ourselves facing him, our backs to the wind and
spray. And so we made the rest of the passage, von Brüning cuddled
against me and the cabin-hatch, alternately shouting a jest to Davies
and talking to me in a light and charming vein, with just that shade
of patronage that the disparity in our ages warranted, about my time
in Germany, places, people, and books I knew, and about life,
especially young men's life, in England, a country he had never