always undertook it with reluctance. It was not, she took care to
mention, what she was accustomed to, but she would do it to oblige.
Her charge was eighteen-pence a day with her dinner, and (she made
the addition with a raised eyebrow, and the resigned sigh of one who
takes her meals as a duty toward those dependent on her) a bit of
tea at the end of the day.

It was on a Wednesday that Dormer Colville met Captain Clubbe face
to face in the street, and was forced to curb his friendly smile and
half-formed nod of salutation. For Captain Clubbe went past him
with a rigid face and steadily averted eyes, like a walking
monument. For there was something in the captain's deportment dimly
suggestive of stone, and the dignity of stillness. His face meant
security, his large limbs a slow, sure action.

Colville and Monsieur de Gemosac were on the quay in the afternoon
at high tide when "The Last Hope" was warped on to the slip-way.
All Farlingford was there too, and Captain Clubbe carried out the
difficult task with hardly any words at all from a corner of the
jetty, with Loo Barebone on board as second in command.

Captain Clubbe could not fail to perceive the strangers, for they
stood a few yards from him, Monsieur de Gemosac peering with his
yellow eyes toward the deck of "The Last Hope," where Barebone stood
on the forecastle giving the orders transmitted to him by a sign
from his taciturn captain. Colville seemed to take a greater
interest in the proceedings, and noted the skill and precision of
the crew with the air of a seaman.

Presently, Septimus Marvin wandered down the dyke and stood