orning with his brother
adventurers Mr. Chalk passed the time in a state of nervous excitement,
which only tended to confirm his wife in her suspicions of his behaviour.
Without any preliminaries he would burst out suddenly into snatches of
sea-songs, the "Bay of Biscay" being an especial favourite, until Mrs.
Chalk thought fit to observe that, "if the thunder did roar like that she
should not be afraid of it." Ever sensitive to a fault, Mr. Chalk fell
back upon "Tom Bowling," which he thought free from openings of that
sort, until Mrs. Chalk, after commenting upon the inability of the late
Mr. Bowling to hear the tempest's howling, indulged in idle speculations
as to what he would have thought of Mr. Chalk's. Tredgold and Stobell
bought papers on the station, but Mr. Chalk was in too exalted a mood for
reading. The bustle and life as the train became due were admirably
attuned to his feelings, and when it drew up and they embarked, to the
clatter of milk-cans and the rumbling of trolleys, he was beaming with
satisfaction.

"I feel that I can smell the sea already," he remarked.

Mr. Stobell put down his paper and sniffed; then he resumed it again and,
meeting Mr. Tredgold's eye over the top of it, sniffed more loudly than
before.

"Have you told Edward that you are going to sea?" inquired Mr. Chalk,
leaning over to Tredgold.

"Certainly not," was the reply; "I don't want anybody to know till the
last possible moment. You haven't given your wife any hint as to why you
are going to Biddlecombe to-day, have you?"

Mr. Chalk shook his head. "I told her that you had got business there,
and that I was going with you just for the outing," he said. "What
she'll say when she finds out--"

His imagination failed him and, a prey to forebodings, he tried to divert
his mind by looking out of window. His countenance cleared as they
neared Biddlecombe, and, the line running for some distance by the side
of the river, he amused himself by gazing at various small craft left
high and dry by the tide.

A short walk from the station brought them to the mouth of the river
which constitutes the harbour of Biddlecombe. For a small port there was
a goodly array of shipping, and Mr. Chalk's pulse beat faster as his gaze
wandered impartially from a stately barque in all the pride of fresh
paint to dingy, sea-worn ketches and tiny yachts.

Uncertain how to commence operations, they walked thoughtfully up and
down the quay. I