“This is Sergeant Pritchard, of the _Agaric_, an old shipmate,” said he. “We were strollin’ on the beach.” The monster blushed and nodded. He filled up one side of the van when he sat down. “And this is my friend, Mr. Pyecroft,” I added to Hooper, already busy with the extra beer which my prophetic soul had bought from the Greeks. “_Moi aussi_” quoth Pyecroft, and drew out beneath his coat a labelled quart bottle. “Why, it’s Bass,” cried Hooper. “It was Pritchard,” said Pyecroft. “They can’t resist him.” “That’s not so,” said Pritchard, mildly. “Not _verbatim_ per’aps, but the look in the eye came to the same thing.” “Where was it?” I demanded. “Just on beyond here—at Kalk Bay. She was slappin’ a rug in a back verandah. Pritch hadn’t more than brought his batteries to bear, before she stepped indoors an’ sent it flyin’ over the wall.” Pyecroft patted the warm bottle. “It was all a mistake,” said Pritchard. “I shouldn’t wonder if she mistook me for Maclean. We’re about of a size.” I had heard householders of Muizenburg, St. James’s, and Kalk Bay complain of the difficulty of keeping beer or good servants at the seaside, and I began to see the reason. None the less, it was excellent Bass, and I too drank to the health of that large-minded maid. “It’s the uniform that fetches ’em, an’ they fetch it,” said Pyecroft. “My simple navy blue is respectable, but not fascinatin’. Now Pritch in ’is Number One rig is always ‘purr Mary, on the terrace’—_ex officio_ as you might say.” “She took me for Maclean, I tell you,” Pritchard insisted. “Why—why—to listen to him you wouldn’t think that only yesterday——” “Pritch,” said Pyecroft, “be warned in time. If we begin tellin’ what we know about each other we’ll be turned out of the pub. Not to mention aggravated desertion on several occasions——” “Never anything more than absence without leaf—I defy you to prove it,” said the Sergeant hotly. “An’ if it comes to that how about Vancouver in ’87?” “How about it? Who pulled bow in the gig going ashore? Who told Boy Niven…?” “Surely you were court martialled for that?” I said. The story of Boy Niven who lured seven or eight able-bodied seamen and marines into the woods of British Columbia used to be a legend of the Fleet. “Yes, we were court-martialled to rights,” said Pritchard, “but we should have been tried for murder if Boy Niven ’adn’t been unusually tough. He told us he had an uncle ’oo’d give us land to farm. ’E said he was born at the back o’ Vancouver Island, and _all_ the time the beggar was a balmy Barnado Orphan!” “_But_ we believed him,” said Pyecroft. “I did—you did—Paterson did—an’ ’oo was the Marine that married the cocoanut-woman afterwards—him with the mouth?” “Oh, Jones, Spit-Kid Jones. I ’aven’t thought of ’im in years,” said Pritchard. “Yes, Spit-Kid believed it, an’ George Anstey and Moon. We were very young an’ very curious.” “_But_ lovin’ an’ trustful to a degree,” said Pyecroft.