Simpson took off his yachting cap and fanned himself with a nautical
almanac. "How far are we from anywhere?" he asked cheerfully.

"Miles," said Archie. "To be more accurate, we are five miles from a
public-house, six from a church, four from a post-office, and three
from the spacious walled-in kitchen-garden and tennis-court. On the
other hand, we are quite close to the sea."

"You will never see your friends again, Simpson. They will miss you
... at first ... perhaps; but they will soon forget. The circulation
of the papers that you wrote for will go up, the brindled bull-pup
will be fed by another and a smaller hand, but otherwise all will be
as it was before."

My voice choked, and at the same moment something whizzed past me
into the sea.

"Yachting cap overboard! Help!" cried Myra.

"You aren't in The Spectator office now, Simpson," said Archie
severely, as he fished with the boat-hook. "There is a time for
ballyragging. By the way, I suppose you do want it back again?"

"It's my fault," I confessed remorsefully; "I told him yesterday I
didn't like it."

"Myra and I do like it, Mr Simpson. Please save it, Archie."

Archie let it drip from the end of the boat-hook for a minute, and
then brought it in.