‘Nought’s lost by bein’ in time, sir,’ said the old boatman. ‘They’ll sport with the flood. And there be another boat over there. Mr. Harris and his little boy.’ ‘He never misses these early tides,’ I said. ‘I suppose they just suit him. He can have his sport before he has to open his shop. He’s pretty venturesome to come out here by himself. But I suppose he knows the Bar as well as you sailor-men?’ ‘He didn’t at one time, sir. He’d as soon have set himself down on a hot stove as come out here.’ And old John’s deep-set blue eyes twinkled. ‘What changed him? Well, it all had to do with his courtship, and getting of his wife. There’s a bit o’ ebb to run, and whilst I fixes they minnows I’ll tell ’ee about it. Just let me get at that locker fust. Thank ’ee, sir. That’s it. ‘Well, except that the good Lord had ordained his place in the world, and so he were bound to fill it, I dunno but what the most curious thing weren’t Mr. Harris coming to Appledore village at all, and living among us rough fisher-folk, for to all appearance he were as much out o’ place as a limpet in a garden rockery. And you’ll agree, sir, when you hears ’ow I fust became acquainted with him. ‘’Twas some while ago now, sir, and I’d a-been away from home, out foreign down along the coast o’ Cuba, and ’twas a wretched night when I sets foot once more on Appledore quay. Dark, and wet, and blowy. No one weren’t about, and the shops were all shut, and the street lamps had blowed out. The light from the barber’s shop at the far corner were the only cheerful thing in sight. When I gets to it, what should I see but a little, youngish, clean-faced, bald-headed man in his shirt-sleeves, and with a white apron on, and big gold spectacles, crouching against the wall, trying to shelter hisself from the wind and wet. He looks up in a queer, blinky way, and I stops. ‘“Why,” I says, “what’s this? Where’s old Puggy?” ‘“Mr. Pugstiles is dead,” pipes the little man, “and I’ve bought his business. And some young men have thrown me out o’ the shop,” and he coughs behind his ’and very genteel. ‘I opens the door. There was a dozen half-growed young chaps sprawling about the shop and roaring with laughing, and playing the fool. I never had no use for they scamps what hangs about the ferry and won’t go to sea, and I was going to put ’em out when the little man stops me. ‘“No, thank you,” he says very polite, “I would rather manage this alone.” ‘So, as he wouldn’t let me help ’im, I goes off home. And that, sir, were the fust time as ever I see Mr. Harris. I’ve known him a long time now, but I’ve never forgot my fust sight o’ him, crouching under the window, with the rain and wind beating down upon him.