We left Kingsbridge as evening drew on, for the five miles’ voyage to Salcombe. The steamer was full of country folk, and a few tourists were observable amid the market baskets. Next to us sat a young fellow and his newly married wife, evidently on their honeymoon, and desperately ill at ease. Every one on board, although none of them were acquainted with those young people, knew their case, and they were the centre to which all eyes were directed. Few noticed the scenery while this human interest was on view, although that scenery was most impressive. The _quasi_ river of Salcombe, seen under a gorgeous sunset with lowering clouds, is not so much lovely as weird, its lonely creeks and inlets running between hills almost treeless, and black against the sky. We passed the excursion steamer coming home to Kingsbridge from Plymouth, with its white mast-head light, and green and red side-lights, the hull of her looming hugely as she rushed by. [Illustration: KINGSBRIDGE QUAY: EVENING.] Presently our engines stopped, and in sight of Salcombe lights across the water, we landed a party in the darkness of a lonely shore for Portlemouth. Passengers and luggage were tumbled into the boat, and soon were lost to view in the gloom; only the splashing of the oars, the rattle of rowlocks, and the murmur of voices indicating their neighbourhood. When the boat returned we steamed across to Salcombe Quay, and landed under the glittering lights of the precipitous town; glittering, that is to say, from a distance: near at hand they have more the shine of glow-worms. It is a thrilling experience to land thus, on a Saturday night, in an entirely strange place, and to have, perforce, to hunt immediately for a night’s lodging. We traversed the long narrow street of Salcombe without success, and finally arrived opposite the glare of an imposing house. “Do you want the hotel, sir?” inquired a Voice. “Yes; which hotel is this?” demanded the Wreck, directing his voice at the place generally, failing to see any one. “The Marine Hotel, sir!” Now, we had heard something of the palatial character of this hotel, and recollecting the traditional shortness of the artist’s purse, we trembled! “Oh!” said the Wreck, replying to the Voice, “rather expensive hotel, is it not?” “Yes, sir,” replied the Voice, suddenly becoming endowed with a body--Boots apparently--“first-class hotel, sir.” This meant waiters in evening dress and haughty chambermaids. What should we dusty wayfarers do in this galley, who carried our luggage on our backs? No landlord of a “first-class hotel” respects a visitor who has not piles of portmanteaux. We faded away from the glance of that candid Boots into the (comparatively) utter darkness, and so down the street again, presently to find that haven where we would be. We supped, and the Wreck discovered a crumb-brush. “A brush at last!” he exclaimed, vigorously brushing his hat with it. “But that’s not a hat-brush,” said I, astonished.