"What are you going to do?" asked Girdlestone, as his son made his way
to the door.

"Don't look like a ghost," Ezra answered in an angry whisper.
"We're all safe, if we are only cool."

"I am better now. You can trust me."

"Keep a smiling face, then," said Ezra, and knocked loudly at the door
of the hut. The occupants had not heard their approach owing to the
storm, but the instant that the young merchant struck the door there was
a buzz of conversation and the sharp barking of a dog. Then came a dull
thud and the barking ceased, from which Ezra concluded that some one had
hurled a boot at the animal.

"We hain't no bait," cried a gruff voice.

"Can I see Mr. Sampson?" asked Ezra.

"I tell 'ee we hain't no bait," roared the voice in a more irritable
tone.

"We don't want bait. We want a word of talk," said Ezra.

As he spoke, the door flew open, and a burly middle-aged man, in a red
shirt, appeared, with a face which was almost the same colour as his
garment. "We hain't got no--" he was beginning, when he suddenly
recognized his visitors and broke short off, staring at them with as
much surprise as it is possible for human features to express.

"Well, if it ain't the genelman from the Priory!" he exclaimed at last,
with a whistle, which seemed to be his way of letting off the
astonishment which would otherwise remain bottled up in his system.

"We want a minute's talk with you, Mr. Sampson," said Ezra.

"Surely, sir--sure-ly!" the fisherman cried, bustling indoors and
rubbing the top of two stools with his sleeve. "Coom in! 'Ere, Jarge,
pull the seats up for the genelmen."

At this summons, a lanky, big-boned hobbledehoy, in sea boots, pushed
the stools up towards the fire, on which a log of wood was blazing
cheerily. The two Girdlestones sat warming themselves, while the
fisherman and his son surveyed them silently with open eyes and mouth,
as though they were a pair of strange zoological curiosities cast up by
the gale.

"Keep doon, Sammy!" the fisherman said hoarsely to a great collie dog
who was licking at Girdlestone's hands. "What be he a suckin' at?
Why, sure, sir, there be blood on your hands."

"My father scratched himself," said Ezra promptly.

"His hat has blown away too, and we lost our way in the dark, so we're
rather in a mess."

"Why, so you be!" Sampson cried, eyeing them up and down. "I thought,
when I heard you, as it was they folk from Claxton as comes 'ere for
bait whe