"Pray do. I am in the act of brewing tea. Sorry I haven't anything more robust to offer you. I cannot keep spirits, as my crew is a Finn with second sight and an alcoholic affinity. He can spot a whiskey-bottle through a teak locker; then he forces the lock and drinks all that there is without reference to the next man. If there were a gallon, he would drink it all." "And then what?" asked Wood. "Then I chain him to the mainmast so that he will not start to swim back to Finland. However, my tea is very good. So are the macaroons ... after you scrape off the green mould. The weather has been warm and humid, and I cannot get fresh ones here. I have wired to Boston for a supply. But come aboard..." He reached over the side for the painter of the dinghy, and caught a clove-hitch one-handedly and with a deftness which did not suggest the amateur. Huntington stepped aboard and looked about with interest. "A handy little boat," he said. "Yes. She was designed for a Block Island sword-fisher. I bought her on the stocks before they had touched her inside. These boats' plans are all got out by yacht designers. She is not dull." "No motor?" "No. They smell, and the grease would soil my manuscripts. Besides, the beat of the engine would get in my head and spoil my metre. Think of trying to write dactylic hexameter with an accursed motor pounding away:--'Juba-this ... Juba-that...' Come below. Our tannin is distilled." In the cosey cabin, singular for its extreme bareness and singular yellow colour-scheme, Wood seated himself upon the edge of the bunk and watched the poet as he poured the tea. Mr. Applebo was in his customary service rig of faded yellow rowing-shirt, white duck trousers, and leather sandals. His long, wavy hair, naturally of a reddish yellow, was sun-bleached to the lustreless tone of oakum, and hung in heavy clusters that almost hid his ears. The lithe, beautifully muscled figure was flawless, so far as one could see; big-boned, brawny, deep-chested, yet with a suggestion of lightness and grace which one associates with statues of Hermes. His skin, wherever visible, was of the quality of satin, the colour of old-gold, and his hands, while hardened from physical work and the handling of wet ropes, were exquisitely shaped, the fingers straight and strong and well-spaced.