The hour of the evening story was always a golden time for me. For my father didn't merely stuff me with thrill. Looking back I can realize now how artistic in conception and narration were those extraordinary yarns of his gleaned from every imaginable type of old sea-dog with whom he had rubbed shoulders, and vivified with all the charm of his abundant imagination. Sometimes he would set me to tell the story, but in his presence I was tongue-tied and stumbling in my speech; but I know that I learnt from him, and not from any pedagogue, whatever understanding and appreciation I have of the splendour of language. And so with the last of the light to bed; while my father drew a heavy screen around his little reading-table, and lighting his lamp applied himself to the mystery, whatever it might be, which engaged him night by night. All I ever heard was the scratching of his quill, or more usually the turning of pages. He was still behind the screen when I awoke with the question on my lips, "Are you a poet, daddy?" I think he was surprised, for he exclaimed quickly, "A poet, Tommy?" and I heard a faint sigh. Then he laughed and said, "You've been dreaming, Tommy. Better go to sleep again." CHAPTER V THE CLOSED GATE My father always tried to meet a surprise with calm acceptance as though it was a thing which he had been anticipating. This was part of his "technique of philosophy", as he termed it, though the phrase was sufficiently incomprehensible to me as a boy. So when, the next morning, I tracked him right into his hiding-place, pushing under the bushes and finding the hole which led down into the secret passage, he didn't exclaim his astonishment, but hearing me stumbling my way through the unexplored blackness he opened the shutter of the dark lantern he was carrying, and said in a matter-of-fact voice, "Come along, Tommy; I'll show you." It was I who was taken aback, for he had been hidden from me and the sudden light surprised me. I uttered a feeble "Oh!" and took his hand. The passage was wide enough for two, and high enough for a short man like my father to walk upright in. The lantern lit up at intervals the stays and beams which supported the tunnel, showing it to be a man-made affair. Presently we came to a flight of roughly levelled steps built up with stakes into the earth, and at the end there was a steep drop into darkness, with a rope ladder disappearing into the gulf. My father began to descend, and I followed. It was a longish shaft, and I was glad to reach the bottom. I knew at once that we were in a different sort of place now, for the sound of our feet echoed resonantly, and the walls were running with moisture, and there were no supports along the sides.