over here--on shore half the time, drinking and loafing; paid crews,
clean hands, white trousers; laid up in the middle of September.'

'We haven't seen many yachts about, said Davies, politely.

For my part, I made no pretence of being a Davies. Faithful to my
lower nature, I vowed the Germans were right, and, not without a
secret zest, drew a lurid picture of the horrors of crewless
cruising, and the drudgery that my remorseless skipper inflicted on
me. It was delightful to see Davies wincing when I described my first
night at Flensburg, for I had my revenge at last, and did not spare
him. He bore up gallantly under my jesting, but I knew very well by
his manner that he had not forgiven me my banter about the 'charming
daughter'.

'You speak German well,' said von Bruening.

'I have lived in Germany,' said I.

'Studying for a profession, I suppose?'

'Yes,' said I, thinking ahead. 'Civil Service,' was my prepared
answer to the next question, but again (morbidly, perhaps) I saw a
pitfall. That letter from my chief awaiting me at Norderney? My name
was known, and we were watched. It might be opened. Lord, how casual
we have been!

'May I ask what?'

'The Foreign Office.' It sounded suspicious, but there it was.
'Indeed--in the Government service? When do you have to be back?'

That was how the question of our future intentions was raised,
prematurely by me; for two conflicting theories were clashing in my
brain. But the contents of the letter dogged me now, and 'when at a
loss, tell the truth', was an axiom I was finding sound. So I
answered, 'Pretty soon, in about a week. But I'm expecting a letter
at Norderney, which may give me an extension. Davies said it was a
good address to give,' I added, smiling.

'Naturally,' said von Bruening, dryly; the joke had apparently ceased
to amuse him. 'But you haven't much time then, have you?' he added,
'unless you leave your skipper in the lurch. It's a long way to
England, and the season is late for yachts.'

I felt myself being hurried.

'Oh, you don't understand,' I explained; '_he's_ in no hurry. He's a
man of leisure; aren't you, Davies?'

'What?' said Davies.

I translated my cruel question.

'Yes,' said Davies, with simple pathos.

'If I have to leave him I shan't be missed--as an able seaman, at
least. He'll just potter on down the islands, running aground and
kedging-off, and arrive about Christmas.'

'Or take the first fair gale to Dover,' laughed