ture. I called at several houses, where I noticed a card in the
window announcing _Apartments to Let_, but I met the same answer
everywhere, 'Full, sir, quite full.' In one place I was offered a bed in
the kitchen, but the whole place smelt so strongly of fried herrings and
of fish oil, that I felt it would be far more pleasant to sleep on the
beach than to attempt to do so in that close and unwholesome atmosphere.

After wandering up and down for some time, I passed a house close to the
village green, and saw the children with whom I had travelled sitting at
tea close to the open window. They, too, were eating herrings, and the
smell made me hungry. I began to feel that it was time I had something
to eat, and I thought my best plan would be to retrace my steps to the
hotel which I had passed on my way, and which stood at the very top of
the high cliff. I turned a little lazy when I thought of the climb, for
I was tired with my journey, and, as I said before, I was not very
strong, and to drag my bag and easel up the rugged ascent would require
a mighty effort at the best of times. I noticed that wooden benches had
been placed here and there on the different platforms of the rock, for
the convenience of the fishermen, and I determined to rest for a quarter
of an hour on one of them before retracing my steps up the steep hill to
the hotel. The fishermen were filling most of the seats, sitting side by
side, row after row of them, talking together, and looking down at the
beach below. As I gazed up at them, they looked to me like so many blue
birds perched on the steep rock.

There was one seat in a quiet corner which I noticed was empty. I went
to it, and laying my knapsack and other belongings beside me, I sat down
to rest.

But I was not long to remain alone. A minute afterwards a young
fisherman, dressed like his mates in blue jersey and oilskin cap,
planted himself on the other end of the seat which I had selected.

'Good-day, sir,' he said. 'What do you think of our bay?'

'It's a pretty place, very pretty,' I said. 'I like it well enough now,
but I daresay I shall like it better still to-morrow.'

'Better still to-morrow,' he repeated; 'well, it _is_ the better
for knowing, in my opinion, sir, and I _ought_ to know, if any one
should, for I've lived my lifetime here.'

I turned to look at him as he spoke, and I felt at once that I had come
across one of Nature's gentlemen. He was a fine specimen of an honest