"Don’t know, for my life!" said Jack with a laugh. "But there are forty ways of catching flies, and about the same number of tying knots; and we’ll find out a way, you may be sure. By the by, cousin, can you tell me how to get to the cottage of an old tar named Joe Gumley? I had a chat with him yesterday as I came here, and I’d like to look him up." "Yes, I can tell you. He’s a tenant of mine. But he won’t see you." "What do you mean?" "Just what I say. He won’t see you. He lives by himself and never admits a visitor. He’s most unpopular with the village folk, and has to tramp to Wynport to sell his garden stuff." "Why don’t they like him?" "Ah, well! The truth is he’s an oddity, a very queer fellow." This explanation by no means satisfied Jack, and he made up his mind to visit Gumley as he had intended. The sailor’s cottage stood some distance farther along the cliff. After breakfast he set off alone toward it. Within ten minutes he came to a stout wooden fence tipped with nails, and so high that he could only just see over it. Then the view of the cottage itself was hidden by a mass of bushes and trees, the foliage of which, though tinged with autumn brown, was still thick. There was a gate in the fence, but no latch and no bell. "An ’I’m-the-king-of-the-Castle’ look about this," thought Jack. He lifted his cane and dealt the gate several smart raps. Immediately he heard a dog rushing down the garden, barking angrily. Standing on tiptoe he peered over, and saw an immense bulldog, thick-set, broad-chested, with an enormous and most ugly head, showing his teeth viciously. The moment the dog caught sight of Jack he redoubled his barking and dashed forward against the fence, as if furious to get at him. "Good dog, good dog!" said Jack soothingly. "What’s the matter with you, you son of a ten-pounder? I say, Gumley—ahoy! ahoy! Gumley!" He raised his voice to a singsong, and sent the call rolling toward the cottage, rather enjoying the din made by himself and the dog, with a hundred echoes from every dell and hollow in the cliff. In a minute or two he saw the sailor stumping round the bushes, his head bare, his shirt open at the neck, a spade in one hand, and in the other a little square board. "Oh, ’tis you, Mr. Hardy, sir. I was digging turnips at the back. Lor’, sir, all Luscombe will know you’ve bin here, with this terrible row and all." "I don’t care if they do, and it was your dog that made the row." "A good dog, sir. Living alone by myself, you see, I need a watch-dog. Come in, sir, come in." He had removed a padlock, drawn two bolts and loosed two bars on the inner side, and thrown the gate open. Jack stepped into the garden, keeping an eye on the bulldog, which had ceased to bark as soon as Gumley appeared, but walked slowly round and round the visitor, sniffing at his legs as if choosing the best place for a bite.