“Dunno. An artist. Leastways, he does a bit o’ paintin’—and fishin’ too,” she added. “Been with me nearly a week now. Nice quiet young man. Don’t give no trouble.” “I’ll have a look at ’im.” “Ah, do.” Tom Gale moved across the bar, opened a door, and passed into the parlour that overlooked the estuary. As has been said, the bar parlour of the “Mariner’s Arms” was snug and cosy. Also it was in harmony with its name and surroundings. Five models of ships stood on the broad mantelpiece, and the pictures consisted of oleographs of the departure of Nelson from Portsmouth Hard on his last voyage, his death at Trafalgar, and three or four ocean liners, and a brigantine under full canvas sailing on an impossible blue sea. The furniture was homely but solid, and a comfortable settee stretched along one side of the room. Seated near the window, his unfinished glass of beer on the table by his side, was a young man of about five and twenty, smoking a cigar. He was clean-shaven, with fair hair rather inclined to curl, a firm, strong mouth, and clear blue eyes. He was dressed in a loose knickerbocker suit, and was wearing a soft turned-down collar. Tom Gale touched his cap, and then awkwardly removed it as he sat down and put his mug of beer on the table. “Good afternoon, sir.” “Good afternoon.” Tom Gale took a long pull at his beer. He was a sociable man. “Nice weather, sir.” “It is, very.” “Doin’ a bit of fishing, Mrs. Yates tells me.” The young man flicked the ash off his cigar, and smiled. “Trying to,” he said, “but I haven’t had any particular luck, so far.” Tom Gale thereupon waxed garrulous on the subject. He knew the estuary well and was up to all kinds of fishing dodges. From fishing the conversation turned to sailing, and from sailing narrowed down to the yacht that had just anchored. “Did you see her, sir?” “I was watching her just now, before you came in.” “Little beauty, I call her. I reckon she could give points to a few in a smart breeze. Looks to me like one o’ they Cowes boats. Never seen her up here before, but the skipper knowed the way right enough. ’Tain’t the first time he’s run up to Marsh Quay, I’ll ’low. Handled her just right.” “Well, _you_ ought to know,” said the other with a laugh. “Ah—reckon I does. Though I ain’t had no chance o’ sailin’ a beauty like that. Nice thing to have nothin’ to do, and a craft like her to do it in. One o’ these here rich chaps, I expects, what can afford to live in luxury and have their wine and whisky and cigars whenever they pleases.” The young man had just drawn out his case, and was selecting a fresh cigar as Tom was speaking. He held out his case with a laugh. “Don’t be jealous of his cigars,” he said; “have one of mine, if you like ’em.” “Thank ’ee, sir. I don’t mind if I do. Not that I often smokes one—don’t get the chance.” He took out a knife, opened it, and was about to cut the cigar, then hesitated.