Then he made a sally against sea life. Silly sort of life, he called it. No opportunities, no experience, no variety, nothing. Some fine men came out of it—he admitted—but no more chance in the world if put to it than fly. Kids. So Captain Harry Dunbar. Good sailor. Great name as a skipper. Big man; short side-whiskers going grey, fine face, loud voice. A good fellow, but no more up to people’s tricks than a baby. “That’s the captain of the _Sagamore_ you’re talking about,” I said, confidently. After a low, scornful “Of course” he seemed now to hold on the wall with his fixed stare the vision of that city office, “at the back of Cannon Street Station,” while he growled and mouthed a fragmentary description, jerking his chin up now and then, as if angry. It was, according to his account, a modest place of business, not shady in any sense, but out of the way, in a small street now rebuilt from end to end. “Seven doors from the Cheshire Cat public house under the railway bridge. I used to take my lunch there when my business called me to the city. Cloete would come in to have his chop and make the girl laugh. No need to talk much, either, for that. Nothing but the way he would twinkle his spectacles on you and give a twitch of his thick mouth was enough to start you off before he began one of his little tales. Funny fellow, Cloete. C-l-o-e-t-e—Cloete.” “What was he—a Dutchman?” I asked, not seeing in the least what all this had to do with the Westport boatmen and the Westport summer visitors and this extraordinary old fellow’s irritable view of them as liars and fools. “Devil knows,” he grunted, his eyes on the wall as if not to miss a single movement of a cinematograph picture. “Spoke nothing but English, anyway. First I saw him—comes off a ship in dock from the States—passenger. Asks me for a small hotel near by. Wanted to be quiet and have a look round for a few days. I took him to a place—friend of mine. . . Next time—in the City—Hallo! You’re very obliging—have a drink. Talks plenty about himself. Been years in the States. All sorts of business all over the place. With some patent medicine people, too. Travels. Writes advertisements and all that. Tells me funny stories. Tall, loose-limbed fellow. Black hair up on end, like a brush; long face, long legs, long arms, twinkle in his specs, jocular way of speaking—in a low voice. . . See that?” I nodded, but he was not looking at me.