My purchases at the Off-Licence consisted of three bottles of whisky and two more of some rather obscure brand of champagne.  It was possible, of course, that McMurtrie’s ideas of catering included such luxuries, but there seemed no reason for running any unnecessary risk.  As a prospective host it was clearly my duty to take every reasonable precaution.

Armed with my spoils I returned to the trap, and stored them away carefully beneath the seat.  Then I climbed up alongside the driver.

“Now you can go to Warren’s Copse,” I said; and without making any reply the tomato-faced gentleman jerked round his horse’s head, and back we went up the street.

I can’t say it was exactly an hilarious drive.  I felt cheerful enough myself, but my companion maintained a depressed and lowering silence, broken only by an occasional inward grunt, or a muttered curse at the horse.  It struck me as curious and not a little sinister that McMurtrie should be employing such an uncouth ruffian, but I supposed that he had some sound reason for his choice.  I couldn’t imagine McMurtrie doing anything without a fairly sound reason.

Within about ten minutes of leaving the town, we came out on to the main road that bounded the landward side of the marshes.  I caught sight of my future home looking very small and desolate against the long stretch of sea-wall, and far in the distance I could just discern the mast of the Betty still tapering up above the bank of the creek.  It was comforting to know that so far at all events Mr. Gow had neither sunk her nor pawned her.

Warren’s Copse proved to be the small clump of trees that I had noticed on the previous day, and my driver pulled up there and jerked the butt of his whip in the direction of the hut.

“There y’are,” he said.  “We can’t get no nearer than this.”

There was a good distance to walk across the marsh, and for a moment I wondered whether to insist upon his getting out and carrying one of my bags, I decided, however, that I had had quite enough of the surly brute’s company, so jumping down, I took out my belongings, and told him that he was at liberty to depart.

He drove off without a word, but he had not gone more than about thirty yards when he suddenly turned in his seat and called out a parting observation.

“I ain’t afraid o’ you—­you—­’ulkin’ bully!” he shouted; “an’ don’t you think it neither.”

Then, whipping up the horse, he broke into a smart canter, and disappeared round a bend in the road.

When I had done laughing, I shoved a bottle into each side pocket, and stowed away the other three in the emptier of my two bags.  The latter were no light weight to lug along, and by the time I had covered the half-mile of marsh that separated me from the hut I had come to the conclusion that the profession of a railway porter was one that I should never adopt as a private hobby.