“I’ll save it till to-morrow, if you don’t mind, sir. I always reckon a cigar’s a Sunday smoke.” “All right,” said the other, as he removed the band from his own cigar and threw it in the grate. The fire was ready laid, but the weather was warm and it had not been lighted. Tom Gale stowed away his cigar in his pocket, drained his mug, and glanced out of the window. “Hallo!” he said, “they’re coming ashore.” “Who?” “Gentleman from the yacht—and his man.” From the window they could see the yacht. A little dinghy was coming ashore, pulled by the sailor. As the bows grated on the stones he sprang out, took a bundle from the boat, waited till the other had moved into his seat and taken the oars, and then shoved her off again. “Skipper gone back to the yacht,” said Tom, who was still watching. “T’other coming along for a drink—if I knows a sailor man rightly.” Five minutes later the said sailor man entered the parlour, a mug of beer in his hand. “What cheer, mate! Good day, sir,” as he caught sight of the other. The two men of a trade quickly forgathered together, while the other quietly smoked his cigar and now and then put in a word. “Stroke o’ luck for me,” said the newcomer, with all the open frankness of his calling. “I ain’t been this way this three year or more. Got an old uncle living over at Frattenbury, and the skipper’s given me the night off to go and see him. Got to get back early to-morrow to get his breakfast for him.” “What, does he sleep aboard?” asked Tom Gale. “Always, ever since I’ve been with him, and that’s gettin’ on for three weeks now. Don’t like hotels, he says. Ain’t been used to ’em. Been livin’ up country in Africa or somewhere—explorer cove, seemingly. Knows his way about.” “How long is he puttin’ in here?” “Three or four days, I reckon. Knows Frattenbury; got a relative there, I think.” “How about his dinner to-night?” asked the young man. “Is he seeing to it himself?” “No, sir. Goin’ to walk into Frattenbury presently and have it there, he says. Comin’ back to-night.” “Got a soft job, ain’t ye?” asked Tom Gale with a broad grin. “’Tain’t bad. But he’s mighty particular.” “Where did you pick him up?” “Why, he only landed at Plymouth a month ago; came straight on to Salcombe for yachtin’—mad on it. My governor there hired him the boat and picked me out to see to him. We’ve been runnin’ along the coast, putting in at Dartmouth, Weymouth, and Poole. Left Ryde early this mornin’, then the wind dropped. Ah, he ain’t a bad sort, ain’t Mr. Templeton.” And he buried his face in his mug, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The young man leaned forward a little in his chair. “Did you say his name was Templeton?” he asked. “That’s right, sir; Mr. Reginald Templeton. It’s painted on one of his trunks.” “And he came from Africa?” “That’s correct sir.” “And he’s staying here several days?”