"It's November," said he, "and a villainous November at that; so you'll
see Murglebed-on-Sea in the fine flower of its desolation."

I thanked him, went home, and summoned my excellent man Rogers.

"Rogers," said I, "I am going to the seaside. I heard that Murglebed
is a nice quiet little spot. You will go down and inspect it for me and
bring back a report."

He went blithe and light-hearted, though he thought me insane; he
returned with the air of a serving-man who, expecting to find a
well-equipped pantry, had wandered into a charnel house.

"It's an awful place, sir. It's sixteen miles from a railway station.
The shore is a mud flat. There's no hotel, and the inhabitants are like
cannibals."

"I start for Murglebed-on-Sea to-morrow," said I.

Rogers started at me. His loose mouth quivered like that of a child
preparing to cry.

"We can't possibly stay there, sir," he remonstrated.

"_We_ are not going to try," I retorted. "I'm going by myself."

His face brightened. Almost cheerfully he assured me that I should find
nothing to eat in Murglebed.