A shout outside sent every man to his feet; the door was flung back and a setter dog bounded in followed by the laughing face of a man who looked twenty-five of his forty years. He was clad in a leather shooting-jacket and leggings, spattered to his hips with mud, and carried a double-barrelled breech-loading gun. Howls of derision welcomed him. "Oh!--what a spectacle!" cried Louis. "Don't let Brierley sit down, High-Muck, until he's scrubbed! Go and scrape yourself, you ruffian--you are the worst looking dog of the two." The Man from the Latin Quarter, as he is often called, clutched his gun like a club, made a mock movement as if to brain the speaker, then rested it tenderly and with the greatest care against one corner of the fireplace. "Sorry, High-Muck, but I couldn't help it. I'd have missed your dinner if I had gone back to my bungalow for clothes. I've been out on the marsh since sunup and got cut off by the tide. Down with you, Peter! Let him thaw out a little, Herbert; he's worked like a beaver all day, and all we got were three plover and a becassine. I left them with Pierre as I came in. Didn't see a duck--haven't seen one for a week. Wait until I get rid of this," and he stripped off his outer jacket and flung it at Louis, who caught it with one hand and, picking up the tongs, held the garment from him until he had deposited it in the far corner of the room. "Haven't had hold of you, Herbert, since the gold medal," the hunter resumed. "Shake!" and the two pressed each other's hands. "I thought 'The Savage' would win--ripping stuff up and down the back, and the muscles of the legs, and he stands well. I think it's your high-water mark--thought so when I saw it in the clay. By Jove!--I'm glad to get here! The wind has hauled to the eastward and it's getting colder every minute." "Cold, are you, old man!" condoled Louis. "Why don't you look out for your fire, High-Muck? Little Brierley's half frozen, he says. Hold on!--stay where you are; I'll put on another log. Of course, you're half frozen! When I went by your marsh a little while ago the gulls were flying close inshore as if they were hunting for a stove. Not a fisherman fool enough to dig bait as far as I could see." [Illustration: Howls of derision welcomed him] Brierley nodded assent, loosened his under coat of corduroy, searched in an inside pocket for a pipe, and drew his chair nearer, his knees to the blaze. "I don't blame them," he shivered; "mighty sensible bait-diggers. The only two fools on the beach were Peter and I; we've been on a sand spit for five hours in a hole I dug at daylight, and it was all we could do to keep each other warm--wasn't it, old boy?" (Peter, coiled up at his feet, cocked an ear in confirmation.) "Where's Marc, Le Blanc, and the others--upstairs?"