nd Miss Spratt had been
sitting in silence on the pier, and it was still William's turn to say
something. Miss Spratt's last remark had been, "Oh, Mr. Bales, you do
say things!" and William felt that his next observation must at all
costs live up to the standard set for it. Three or four times he had
opened his mouth to speak, and then on second thoughts had rejected the
intended utterance as unworthy. At the end of half-an-hour his mind was
still working fruitlessly. He knew that the longer he waited the more
brilliant he would have to be, and he told himself that even Bernard
Shaw or one of those clever writing fellows would have been hard put to
it now.

William was at odds with the world. He was a romantic young man who had
once been told that he nearly looked like Lewis Waller when he frowned,
and he had resolved that his holiday this year should be a very dashing
affair indeed. He had chosen the sea in the hopes that some old
gentleman would fall off the pier and let himself be saved by--and,
later on, photographed with--William Bales, who in a subsequent
interview would modestly refuse to take any credit for the gallant
rescue. As his holiday had progressed he had felt the need for some such
old gentleman more and more; for only thus, he realised, could he
capture the heart of the wayward Miss Spratt. But so far it had been a
dull season; in a whole fortnight nobody had gone out of his way to
oblige William, and to-morrow he must return to the City as unknown and
as unloved as when he left it.

"Got to go back to-morrow," he said at last. As an impromptu it would
have served, but as the result of half-an-hour's earnest thought he felt
that it did not do him justice.

"So you said before," remarked Miss Spratt.

"Well, it's still true."

"Talking about it won't help it," said Miss Spratt.

William sighed and looked round the pier. There was an old gentleman
fishing at the end of it, his back turned invitingly to William. In
half-an-hour he had caught one small fish (which he had had to return as
under the age limit) and a bunch of seaweed. William felt that here was
a wasted life; a life, however, which a sudden kick and a heroic rescue
by W. Bales might yet do something to justify. At the Paddington Baths,
a month ago, he had won a plate-diving competition; and, though there is
a difference between diving for plates and diving for old gentlemen, he
was prepared to waive it. One kick and then ... Fame! And,